


Short Cuts

by Popcornjones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Anonymous Sex, Bisexuality, Childhood Trauma, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hospitalization, Longing, M/M, Melancholy, Memories, Panic Attacks, Peeping, Stalking, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21994546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: A series of one-chapter ficlets gathered together, posted as the spirit moves me.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 38
Kudos: 135
Collections: MYSTRADE, Mystrade StoryTime, Sherlock (BBC) - Mystrade





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft narrowed his eyes — he knew what he was seeing, but it couldn’t be!

There would be an innocent explanation — Lestrade was undercover, luring the other man into the bushes to purchase narcotics or stolen goods. Or illicit sex... surely Lestrade wasn’t going to _partake_ of the illicit sex...

Perhaps they were old friends, both amateur botanists or birders, scouring the brush for an elusive snowdrop or rare thrush...

Lestrade had never before displayed an interest in botany or birds — but he’d never held eye contact with another man like that, nor followed him into the darkness of the trees with significant looks and possessive touches before either.

At least, Mycroft had never observed it — had never deduced it from abrasion on his jaw or stressed fabric over his knees...

Mycroft crept closer, silently trailing Lestrade and his companion into the copse. He could hear them... panting...

He had not known that Lestrade — stolid, handsome, noble Lestrade, _long married and recently divorced Lestrade_ — was a double agent, that he swung both ways, played for both teams, walked both sides of the street, was AC/DC...

Mycroft _should_ have known!

He should have known at their first meeting, when he’d had the then Detective Constable brought to a subterranean car park — a dim, shadowy, anonymous place, perfect for emphasising that should Mycroft desire, he could make Lestrade disappear completely from this earth. He’d sized up the man, Lestrade had been in his mid-thirties then, handsome — not nearly so much as now with the crown of silvery hair, age suited him — and sharp eyed. Mycroft had felt surprised by the policeman’s personal magnetism — and pleased that he was not intimidated by Mycroft’s show of strength.

Lestrade was a man supremely at ease with himself. By nature, he was outgoing, decent, honest and even... merry — a ringing bell on a grey day. By profession he was sceptical, assessing Mycroft with an experienced eye even as he was assessed. Lestrade was not mulish, as was John Watson, rather when he understood that Mycroft was concerned for the brilliant junkie Lestrade had lately taken under his wing, the copper had rolled up his sleeves (figuratively) and begun their first strategy session on how to help Sherlock become sober and functional. Mycroft had been impressed by Lestrade’s ability to make him comfortable… and surprisingly forthcoming.

Shamefully, under Lestrade’s brilliant smile, Mycroft had lit up and babbled away. The man must be invaluable in interrogations.

Afterwards, Mycroft had to admit that Lestrade had charms that appealed to him on a base level — a virility peculiar to men of the working class, a rough athleticism that showed through the cheap suit and rumpled trench, warmth, generosity of spirit and humour paired with a stunning lack of ego and, most distractingly, a charisma that dazzled Mycroft. 

Mycroft coveted the Detective’s attention, he laboured for his smiles, desired his closeness — and when close felt woozy with the manly scent of soap, cigarettes, musk, and the faintest hint of cheap aftershave...

He _wanted_ Lestrade. 

At that meeting, Mycroft had deduced the man’s marriage by his fingernails and close shave — Lestrade had been wed long enough to have settled in, but not so long that it had lost its lustre. The wife had not yet begun to stray, but Mycroft saw that tragedy had shaken their union, the damage quite likely insurmountable — though Lestrade still believed in his marriage, laboured long and hard to save it. Mycroft had found himself thinking it a shame that such a lovely man should lack for anything in his personal life. 

It could be dangerous, this attraction to Lestrade. Mycroft vowed to himself that he would never allow it to show. He would not make a fool of himself over a straight, married policeman, no matter how noble and good-looking.

Over the years, they had met regularly to discuss Sherlock — at first an indulgence to bask in the man’s presence. But Lestrade was more than a pretty face and fit body, his ideas and his strategies _worked_. Lestrade did what Mycroft, despite years of struggle, could not: he motivated Sherlock to get clean and stay that way. 

Mycroft was indebted to Detective Inspector Lestrade. Without him... Sherlock would surely have died long since. 

Not that Sherlock himself gave Lestrade credit. He treated the man appallingly.

Now that John Watson was in the suburbs preoccupied by his clinic job and his daughter, Mycroft’s fears for his brother’s sobriety had returned in force — especially after the Magnusson fiasco. He visited Sherlock’s latest crime scene — he wanted to check on the Detective Inspector, make certain his brother was sober and not being so irritating as to alienate the long-suffering copper. Lord knows what Sherlock would get up to if Lestrade barred him from his murders. 

(Drugs. Sherlock would talk a mile-a-minute, trod all over crime scenes and start fights he couldn’t win whilst high on cocaine… or he would lay in the squalor of a doss house, nodding off from heroin.) 

But if he were honest, Mycroft would admit that despite his very real worry, checking on Sherlock allowed him an opportunity to see the Inspector, to bask in his smiles and laughter, enjoy the glow of his good looks...

The victim had been found in an alley on the outskirts of a neighbourhood known for its gay bars and lively restaurants. The best brunch in London could be got there, a night in a pulsating disco, or a pleasant evening in a piano bar amongst like-minded fellows.

Mycroft’s driver had passed by the bright high street and continued into the seedier area adjacent — the place young queers went to rent a room in a ramshackle flat-share, free of Mummy and Da for the first time, free to express themselves and explore their desires. Mycroft had been here once, in this neighbourhood, decades ago, with a hook-up. The boy’s room had been tiny, he remembered, and it had smelled of candles and socks. Afterwards, Mycroft had hiked warily through ill-lit streets to a cab stand on the main road, fingering the boy’s phone number — the number of the landline in the flat belonging to all of the half-dozen or so itinerate flatmates — knowing he would never use it. 

The CCTV cameras in this part of town were notoriously prone to breakage, as were the streetlights, making the moonlit streets dim and dangerous. Here one could score cheap party drugs or a ‘date’ with any number of startlingly young twinks. Or if one didn’t care to pay for youth, one could dawdle near the several men’s toilets or overgrown parks waiting for a bit of rough with whom to engage in anonymous sex.

From the remove of his car, Mycroft noted that the murder victim was a gay man — his hairstyle and clothing indicated as much — who appeared to be in his early twenties. His flowing blonde locks were matted with blood from the head wound that had almost certainly killed him. Sherlock had come to this less-than-remarkable scene as it was similar to four others over the past year — four others that had yielded precious little forensic evidence, couldn’t be laid at the feet of partners, family, or other acquaintances and remained unsolved. Sherlock was giddy at the mere prospect of a serial killer thus he was more than willing to poke around a pedestrian murder if it might be the work of someone who had eluded the police — and more recently Sherlock — for months.

“Dumped, like the others.” Lestrade’s sharp-edged second informed them. Mycroft, within his sedan, rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious, Sally.” Sherlock snipped, swirling around to examine the brick wall adjacent. 

“Where’s your little sycophant?” The Sargent needled. “Not following you around ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ tonight?”

Lestrade intervened. “Leave him alone, Sally.”

“Because we don’t need you to perform for _us_.” She persisted.

“Do shut up.” Sherlock urged.

“Sally.” Lestrade’s voice was soft but his tone was hard. With a discontented sigh, the Sargent crossed her arms over her chest and turned away — to address her comments to the forensic techs. 

Lestrade’s eyes followed her only briefly, then returned to a melancholy contemplation of the victim. He was subdued this evening, his serious mien overlain with an unfamiliar gloom. Mycroft could see that his brother had noticed — Sherlock cast several assessing glances at the Detective Inspector — but his expression told Mycroft that he had formed no conclusions. 

Mycroft considered the possibilities. Lestrade’s divorce had affected him for a not inconsiderable time — the bulk before it became official. Over the past year he had seemed to bounce back, returning to the gregarious charm that took years from his face and the diligent exercise that took a stone from his powerful figure. Mycroft had been expecting Lestrade to begin dating again for six months at least.

Rejecting the divorce on balance of probability, Mycroft followed his final thought through. Perhaps Lestrade _had_ begun dating. It was unlikely that Mycroft would not have noticed, but not impossible — and odds increased if the state of said dating was… preliminary. It was conceivable that the Detective Inspector might have been spurned by a woman on whom he had set his hopes.

Though what foolish female would turn down Gregory Lestrade?! Mycroft was offended at the mere thought!

And wouldn’t such a good humoured and easy-going man — not to mention one of his experience — simply shrug off that sort of setback? Lestrade was more prone to have a laugh at himself than to moan. No, Mycroft decided, though it couldn’t be ruled out, Lestrade’s doldrums were unlikely to have been brought on by a specific romance, or lack thereof.

Something at work? A threat or setback there was more apt to make Lestrade angry and diligent than sad. The Detective Inspector was pugnacious — considering his less-than-savoury upbringing, he’d had to be. Two decades spent solidly in the middle class had softened his rough edges — and moved his Estuary accent upriver to a better postal code — but had not blunted the instincts. Woe to the man who backed Greg Lestrade into a corner!

Mycroft briefly considered the chief tragedy of the Inspector’s life, the circumstance that had doomed his marriage and stolen permanently some of the light from Lestrade's eyes — the death of his only child. As devastating as that had been, more than fifteen years had passed since that sad day. It was not close to the child’s birthday nor the date of her passing — days that Lestrade marked in recent years with a subtle yet heartfelt wistfulness that saw him subdued but not despondent. This funk was not of that ilk. 

Lestrade had no close relations — only friends. Old friends for whom he would bleed, newer friends that he prized. The man tended his friendships carefully, a master gardener watering and weeding, encouraging beautiful blooms to grow on the stalks of his relationships. When Lestrade was lonely, he had people upon whom he could call. Mycroft had seen him do so on a number of occasions. Once or twice, he flattered himself that Lestrade had called upon him…

It was a mystery, and Mycroft did not care for mysteries that refused to open themselves up and offer their secrets at the altar of his intellect. 

He watched as Lestrade went through the motions at the crime scene, listening, weighing information, giving orders, herding Sherlock away from the forensic techs and eventually shooing him away entirely. A tent was erected over the body, yellow tape walled off the mouth of the alley. Detectives and forensic techs swathed entirely in ill-fitting white paper coveralls moved through their byzantine dance. Eventually the corpse was taken away and the population at the scene thinned until only the two uniformed coppers tasked with guarding the alley were left. And Lestrade.

He had disposed of his white paper togs and for almost an hour as forensics wrapped up, leaned pensively against a wall, smoking and contemplating the tent that shielded the victim’s resting place. Mycroft sat in the back of his car, watching the Detective Inspector through mirrored glass. He was determined to discover what had affected Lestrade so.

Finally, after a word with the guards, Lestrade stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked from the alley into the moonlit ghetto that surrounded it. Mycroft, overwhelmed by curiosity, slipped from his sedan and gripping his umbrella, trailed the Detective Inspector.

It was a cool night, but not cold. Rain had been forecast and dark clouds drifted across the night sky, obscuring and revealing banks of stars. Occasionally, they blotted out the moon and the streets disappeared in shadow.

Three blocks from the crime scene, Lestrade pulled his notebook from the depths of his jacket and consulted the pages. He surveyed the neighbourhood and continued on to an undistinguished Victorian building, the sort that had two flats on every floor — very like, Mycroft thought, the place his youthful indiscretion had taken him for their tryst. The Detective Inspector scribbled in his notebook — was this address linked to the young victim? He did not venture up the walk, after a long minute spent tapping the book on his palm, he stowed the notebook in a pocket and bit his lower lip.

Lestrade turned away from the building slowly, looking around. Mycroft felt exposed as the policeman’s eyes swept over the shadows within which he lurked. Lestrade appeared to orient himself and began walking again. He led Mycroft down a side street to a narrow mews. It was dark as pitch in the mews, but Lestrade moved through it confidently as if he knew it well. Halfway Lestrade ducked into a laneway between buildings. Mycroft followed him with care — he would be easy to spot if he got too close.

The Detective Inspector exited the laneway and circled around a cement slab of a building. Clearly a showplace in the 1960’s, it had long since passed into disrepair, the stack of cement balconies crumbling at the corners. Old furniture, lines of laundry, junk and dust bins cluttered several balconies of the once chic address, whilst others sported neat pot gardens and fairy lights. One had a mobile hanging from its ceiling, a gaudy rainbow-coloured affair.

The building had a weight, an importance for Lestrade. His expression as he stared up the dingy facade spoke volumes. Bittersweet remembrances... regret... loss… he took an abortive step towards the door then stilled, running his hands through his hair and sighing.

Had Lestrade lived here? 

Mycroft frowned — the address was unfamiliar. He pulled up the policeman’s file in his mind, examining the list of addresses — none were in this neighbourhood, let alone in this building. A girlfriend then? Little information had been amassed about Lestrade’s social life before his marriage.

When Lestrade continued on, Mycroft shadowed him, taking note of the places Lestrade lingered, the things his eyes sought out. They ventured from the residential streets to pass by pubs and dark storefronts. For a moment, Mycroft was certain that Lestrade intended to enter an ancient pub whose rickety sign proclaimed it was The Queen’s Court (apropos, Mycroft though snarkily), but he passed it by. Music leaked from the old building, Bowie’s voice and Freddie Mercury’s soaring tenor followed them down the road.

_And love dares you to care for / The people on the edge of the night / And love dares you to change our way of / Caring about ourselves / This is our last dance / This is our last dance /This is ourselves under pressure..._

The song took Mycroft back to Uni, to his sexual awakening and explorations. It had been a heady time... he’d started early, only sixteen, and had matriculated three years later with firsts in economics, languages and philosophy. In the mean-time he’d discreetly sewn his oats, eschewing the other students in favour of young gardeners, builders’ apprentices, bicycle messengers, one of the punk rockers that hung out in the quad — any bit of rough he could get his hands on...

What recollections did it inspire in Lestrade?

At the end of the street, the Detective Inspector paused. He stood restlessly, wavering on the cusp of decision. Would Lestrade turn back, Mycroft wondered? Or would he continue his nocturnal ramble through his memories?

A cloud drifted across the moon, a black shadow momentarily stealing the light.

Abruptly, Lestrade chose. He walked away from the corner, moving with purpose, seeming to have a destination in mind. He strode back into the residential block, passing by a fusty Underground station, ignoring the few people loitering nearby— young hookers, mostly, and their circumspect clientele. After ten minutes of wandering, backtracking, circling, Mycroft despaired of Lestrade’s purpose — was he searching for something or was he simply walking off his mood? 

The silver-crowned copper slowed his pace.

Mycroft recognised the cottage and the men stationed nearby. Even at this late/early hour, a half-dozen men were visible in the moonlight. They all looked at Lestrade hungrily, sizing him up — he could have his choice of them, clearly. Mycroft’s lips twisted in a smirk, thinking that they were out of luck with this one. Lestrade would disappoint them and their eyes would follow his handsome form into the distance.

Two more men stepped out of the trees, offering themselves. And then…

And then! Gregory Lestrade locked eyes with the best of them. With the barest nod of his head, he engaged the man in the oldest of contracts — a quick and intense exchange of fluids and pleasure. Lestrade’s eyes indicated the bushes and he followed the man into their darkness.

Mycroft was _astounded_. He conjured and dismissed seven theories within the first second. Ten more in the following twenty, each more unlikely than the last. Until Mycroft had to admit that all appearances confirmed that Gregory Lestrade had chosen to come to this specific place — had searched it out — for anonymous sex _with another man_.

As he approached the copse into which Lestrade had ventured, Mycroft felt the eyes of the trolling men on him, judging him. There were a few twinks, young prostitutes on the hustle, but most of them were older, a collection of jaded city boys, shifty-looking married men from the suburbs, and queens past their prime, all looking for easy gratification.

He knew their ilk, could tell instantly who wanted him, who would settle for him and who would not give him the time of day. Mycroft knew because he’d been here before — not this park in this neighbourhood, but to scores of cottages and bits of greenway that were identical to this place in every way that mattered. Mycroft was not above easy sex. No-strings sex. In his first years in London, he availed himself of the stress-relieving services of faceless men with some frequency — being careful not to use one place too often nor to go with the same man twice. He’d become well-versed in the signals, in avoiding the cameras and slipping away unnoticed. He’d cultivated anonymity.

Lestrade, too, seemed practiced. He bypassed the pros and looked away from the marrieds. He’d sorted through the others swiftly, locking eyes with a man nearer his own age, who was trying, with some success, to appear younger and fitter than he was. Not the worst choice by far... 

Passing through swiftly, mimicking an elderly gentleman finding himself in unsavoury company — trusty umbrella tapping anxiously on the pavement with every step — Mycroft hurried out of sight, helped by another cloud occluding the moon. In the deeper darkness, he slipped into the trees and doubled back — as much as he loathed legwork, Mycroft’s spy craft was top notch, he moved silently through the dark foliage. Still he barely knew what he was doing, his mind still conjuring alternate narratives for what he had witnessed. _The man must be an undercover cop and Lestrade was his handler. They were having a meeting under the guise of a quick fuck…_

Then Mycroft heard Lestrade’s voice — close! Louder than he expected. He froze.

“Oh...” It was accompanied by the sound of frantic kissing and a wet noise that Mycroft knew well. He felt numb, unable to move, forced to eavesdrop on a casual intimacy that gutted him. “Oh god...” 

“Fuck, you’re fit.” Another voice — the other man, Lestrade’s partner for the minute. “Yeah, touch it...”

Mycroft wanted desperately to leave, but he was rooted to the spot — and horrified by the thought of Lestrade finding him there, witnessing this sleazy hook-up...

“You’re sooo fit, mate.” The other man said again, moaning. Mycroft hated him — a... a dingy _goldfish_ touching his glorious Lestrade. How was this happening?! 

More fumbling, more kissing. The rasp of fabric against bark... the squick of a tongue against skin... Mycroft could not witness this! He _had to leave_! He had to turn around and slink away... he hated himself... he hated Lestrade... 

“S-stop… erg…sorry, I, erm... this is a mistake…” Lestrade! Sounding embarrassed, hesitant. “I... I can’t do this...”

“Don’t worry.” The other man purred. “Your wife will never know.”

Lestrade scoffed. “Not married, mate — wouldn’t be here if I was.” The second part was an aside, the Detective Inspector talking to himself. Mycroft could attest to the truth of it — Lestrade had been scrupulously faithful to his faithless wife.

“Yeah? You look like a married bloke. In the closet for work, then?” 

There was a heavy sigh. “I guess.” Lestrade admitted. “By default, not intention. I had boyfriends… before. I’m not ashamed...” His protest petered out as Lestrade worked the scenario through to its inevitable conclusion. Mycroft could almost hear his thoughts — _Could I come out at work? Would I? I didn’t before... would it fuck up my career? Do I have the courage to find out? Fuck it! Fuck them if they can’t handle it!_

“Bully for you.” Suddenly the moonlight returned, bright in the thicket of trees, and Mycroft saw them clearly through the leaves — the other man had Lestrade backed against a tree with low-hanging boughs providing cover. He was nuzzling Lestrade’s neck, his hands busy with the policeman’s flies. Both men were hard in their trousers.

“Get off, come on.” Lestrade protested, his hands tangling with the other man’s. 

“Don’t say no. You’re here... and you’re fit, mate…” The voice was seductive. “I’ll let you fuck me… raw.”

Mycroft could not see Lestrade’s expression — he held his breath during the endless seconds before the Detective Inspector answered. “Yeah, no. Sorry… this is a mistake. Sorry.” His apology contained less embarrassment now than iron. 

“You can’t...” the other man began, but Lestrade shoved him away, ignoring his protests, and ducked under the low branches. Mycroft feared momentarily that he would be seen, but he was in shadow, partially shielded by another tree and Lestrade was intent on the man he was leaving behind.

With baited breath, Mycroft waited until the policeman was out of sight, until his hook-up had finished cursing and tucking himself away and gone back to troll for a more amenable candidate. Only then did Mycroft extricate himself from the overgrowth and leave the park unseen. 

He started back towards his car via another route — the map of London in his head kept Mycroft from ever being lost. He let his feet carry him forward, blind to his surroundings, his thoughts turning inward.

Overexcited. That was his problem, all his nerves a-jangle. His stomach was queasy and it was difficult to breathe properly — Mycroft panted, his heart beating rapidly as a frightened rabbit’s. 

He was appalled — appalled and disgusted with himself for not seeing this sooner, for not deducing a _decade_ ago that Lestrade was bisexual... that he was... potentially — though it was still vanishingly improbable — Lestrade was potentially... Mycroft could barely bring himself to form the thought... Lestrade was... could be... might be... _obtainable_... 

Not that a proclivity for sex with men meant Lestrade was capable of a relationship with one. And he’d called it off! Did he even desire men?

_I had boyfriends… before…_

Maybe... maybe...

The words took Mycroft back to where he had heard them... to the distressing sounds and sights of Lestrade’s big, capable hand pawing another man’s cockbulge through his jeans, of his square jaw panting against the man’s stubbled chin... 

The idea of the Detective Inspector with his wife, with women, had been easier to bear — perhaps because Mycroft could not envision it in such nauseating detail. Perhaps because it had bolstered his belief in the man’s unavailability. He had wanted Lestrade to find a good woman and be happy. Lestrade should be happy.

But perhaps... now...

No. 

No, Mycroft was cold, manipulative, reserved... insular. And he was gawky and ugly, all legs and nose and freckles... it was ridiculous — how could he hold _any_ allure for one such as Lestrade? It was just as hopeless now as it had been when Mycroft believed him straight.

It had grown darker as he walked — either the full moon was setting or the clouds had accumulated in front of it. It suited Mycroft’s mood.

He was pathetically grateful that Lestrade had not gone through with it. He did not know what melancholy had possessed Lestrade, what discontent had driven him to seek transient comfort in the arms of another man. But he was emphatically thankful that the Detective Inspector had realised, had decided that empty sex would not assuage whatever it was that ailed him. Mycroft knew well that sex was no anodyne, he was pleased to believe that Lestrade knew it as well.

_I had boyfriends… before…_

Boyfriends!

This discovery... Mycroft could not yet grasp the ramifications. Or he could not admit to them. Twelve long years he’d pined for the policeman, Lestrade’s unquestioned heterosexuality making it _piquant_... something naughty and delicious that Mycroft savoured, but only in tiny, controlled portions. Late at night with the exhaustion of overwork making his brain race, he would taste the fantasy — _Lestrade looking at Mycroft and for once_ seeing _him... reaching out, his large hands tracing the seams of Mycroft’s waistcoat... Mycroft would protest, “Lestrade...” — No, he would say, “Gregory...”_

_“How many times,” Lestrade murmured in his fantasy, the Detective Inspector’s breath hot on Mycroft’s jaw. “Have I asked you to call me ‘Greg?’” His thick fingers would come to rest at Mycroft’s waistband, tucking themselves inside, pulling Mycroft closer. “No one calls me ‘Gregory.’”_

_“No one but me.” Mycroft would feel Lestrade’s smile against his neck. He imagined that he would boldly stroke Lestrade’s chest, his broad shoulders, down his strong back. Lestrade would press him against a wall, pinning Mycroft with his powerful body. Mycroft shuddered with delight and arousal as the policeman’s rough stubble scraped Mycroft’s chin — he could feel the iron rod of Lestrade’s cock pressing into his thigh, feel his own erection digging into Lestrade’s groin..._

“Mycroft?” A hand fell on his shoulder.

Mycroft jumped, snapped from his reverie. He jerked away from his accoster, bringing his umbrella around defensively — but Mycroft was stunned to discover the man himself, Detective Inspector Lestrade, at his side. 

“Ah!” He spluttered, dropping the point of his umbrella to the pavement. “Oh! Goodness, erm, Gr- ah Detective Inspector. I… I was wool-gathering, please forgive me.” Mycroft was conscious that his face was flushed red — he hoped the night was now dark enough that Lestrade could not see it.

Lestrade smiled indulgently, his amusement mild, lacking judgement. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He looked around quizzically. “What’re you doing here — not your usual haunt, innit?”

“No.” Mycroft pulled himself together with iron will and not a little experience. He was relieved to discover that he was within sight of his car. “I was looking for Sherlock, but he’d left by the time I reached your crime scene. And you Detective Inspector — are you working security this evening?”

“Hmm, no.” Lestrade’s gaze turned inward — it suited his handsome face. “I spent a bit o’ time ‘round here when I was younger... I was... just looking around.”

“Taking a walk down memory lane?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

“Is it everything you remember?”

Lestrade sighed — Mycroft noticed that he looked weary, the dark under his eyes wasn’t only shadow. “More here than the high street — I tended bar there for almost three years and I barely recognise the place. I guess after two decades... but back here...” A complicated expression passed over the policeman’s face and he studied Mycroft for a moment almost anxiously. “Me first real love affair started here.”

“Ah.” Mycroft tried to read Lestrade’s micro-expressions and body language for clues to the relationship — but either the dark hindered his ability or Mycroft was losing the ability to read the Detective Inspector. “If it’s worth remembering, it must have been good.”

“Had its moments. He lived not too far from here. The vic — poor sod — the vic reminded me of him. Dunno why, he didn’t look much like Henry.”

A frisson of excitement bubbled inside Mycroft when Lestrade said ‘he’ and then ‘Henry’ — Lestrade’s bisexuality confirmed! _Hope_! And the young victim awakening memories of the love affair explained the Detective Inspector’s melancholia this evening. Solving that mystery was satisfying. “Perhaps it’s the neighbourhood.” Mycroft said blandly. 

“Mm... there’s someone else who reminds me of Henry — probably shouldn’t, they’re nothing alike... but I’ve been thinking I should ask ‘im out.”

Mycroft’s guts turned to liquid and churned. “Oh?” He twisted his stricken face away, busying himself brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. 

“Yeah... but I’ve been out of the game a long time. Can’t tell if he’d be interested.”

Mycroft buried his hurt — Lestrade was confiding in him, all Mycroft had hoped for a scant hour ago. He schooled his features carefully and turned back to Lestrade. “He’s a fool if he isn’t.”

Lestrade laughed, a beautiful sound, and flashed his luminous smile. “I don’t know if he dates men. I don’t know if he dates at all.”

A terrible idea struck Mycroft, a hideous, sickening idea. “It’s not... Sherlock?”

“What? No!” Lestrade looked ill. “That’d be like pulling me sister!” He ran a hand through his hair, gripping a hank and grimacing. “Sherlock?! I’d sooner date a hive of hornets. Erm, no offense.”

The relief was staggering! Mycroft leaned heavily on his umbrella, the reprieve pulling him earthward like gravity doubled — then abruptly it reversed and bubbled up in a barking laugh. “Forgive me, Detective Inspector.” He chortled, weak kneed. “I jumped to an erroneous conclusion — I must say I’m relieved for your sake. A hive of hornets, yes, that sounds about right. Not even John Watson has volunteered for that.”

Lestrade laughed with him. “More’s the pity. I think John is the only person who could make a success of it.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft took a moment to make his peace, exhaling his disappointment. He knew how desolate being alone year after year could be, how empty. He didn’t want that for Lestrade — he should be happy! However, that happiness came about. “How can I help, Detective Inspector? My ‘gaydar’ isn’t as accurate as I’d like —” Mycroft stifled a bitter sigh. “— but I could easily deduce whether or not he was amenable. Who is this fellow?” 

“Oh, er...”

A drop fell on Mycroft’s face, then another on his neck rolled down into his collar, then another... “Bugger! It’s starting to rain.” Mycroft opened his umbrella. “Get under.” He commanded Lestrade. “It’s big enough for two.” 

“It’s ok—“

“Don’t be stupid.” Mycroft said and pulled Lestrade under the shelter of his umbrella as the pitter-pat of raindrops increased. He hooked his umbrella arm through the policeman’s, and set his other hand on the man’s bicep. Lestrade was warm and solid against Mycroft’s side. He repressed a shudder of arousal, enjoying the contact for what it was. “Come, I’ll give you a ride home.” He tugged briskly, starting them towards the dark saloon.

“Oh no.” Lestrade protested. “It’s out of your way.”

“Not far. No reason to get wet, Lestrade, get in.”

After a brief hesitation, Lestrade did as he was told. Mycroft climbed in after, smelling him — damp poly-cotton, sweat, musk, cigarettes and sandalwood... He wanted Lestrade’s solidity pressing into him again... pushing him down...

Mycroft forced himself to stop thinking before he became erect, embarrassing them both. He leaned into the intercom, attempting to distract himself. He gave his driver Lestrade’s address.

Lestrade looked momentarily surprised, momentarily hopeful, then it faded to something like his normal good-humour. “You have a good memory.” He said.

“Eidetic.” Mycroft told him. 

“Right. You don’t take notes. Not when we talk, anyway.”

“Not in writing, no. But I do take note of anything I deem important.”

“And the rest?” He asked softly, looking down as his hands.

Mycroft squinted at the Detective Inspector. “I remember. Why?”

Lestrade’s earlier melancholy showed in his eyes. “So, I’m in there somewhere.” He murmured. “Don’t have to be notable.”

Mycroft turned away, reaching for his seatbelt — his insides tossed and rolled and threatened to betray him. “You’re notable.” He said softly. “I’ve noticed.” He pulled the belt across his body, as it snicked into the buckle a large hand covered his pale one, caressing his wrist.

“Mycroft...” Lestrade’s voice, full of longing. “Mycroft.”

He couldn’t seem to look away from their hands, his long milk-white fingers entwined with Lestrade’s thicker, tan ones. Mycroft had seen the hand pawing a stranger’s cock bulge, wrapping around the stranger’s neck. He had hated it! He had been jealous of these hands — he had wanted them for himself! Now...? Now Lestrade’s thumb circled in Mycroft’s palm. 

“Mycroft?”

He could barely breathe. “Yes, Lestrade?”

A warm chuckle. “Mycroft, call me ‘Greg.’ Please.”

Mycroft looked up sharply, but Lestrade’s face held no hint of mockery. He licked his lips, gathering his courage. “May I call you ‘Gregory?’” He asked, giving his other hand over to Lestrade’s attentive fingers.

“No one calls me ‘Gregory.’

Mycroft met Lestrade’s eyes. They were brown and soft, gazing at him full of hope and promise. “No one but me.” 

Gregory’s glorious smile lit Mycroft’s heart aflame. It burned brightly, the glow illuminating his entire being. Mycroft found he could not help but smile back.


	2. The Diaspora of Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is in hospital

—-  
REVELATION 

The revelatory evening began with a phone call.

It had been a long and gruelling day — a British freighter had been hijacked by Iran and the PM was spitting mad. The Americans were threatening to send retaliatory air strikes and the PM was of a mind to let them. Saudi Arabia had taken advantage of the kerfuffle to ramp up its operations in Yemen, Turkey was running roughshod over the Syrian border in defiance of the U.N., and it was highly possible that North Korea had acquired an H-bomb, and Kim Jong-un was crazy enough to lob it at the U.S. Mycroft had had his hands full avoiding World War III — not to mention nuclear annihilation — and that was just this morning. 

No wonder Mycroft had no time for a social life.

There was no moon to lighten the night sky when Mycroft had finally stepped into his car. “Diogenes.” He commanded his driver, then sat back and closed his eyes. Mycroft was wrung out, but he knew sleep would be elusive. An hour or so at his club would help him unwind.

His phone alert sounded. His _private_ phone alert. 

Mycroft cursed silently. He could count the people who had this number on one hand and he didn’t particularly care to speak to any one of them. Balance of probability indicated it would be Mummy calling to harangue him about Christmas or some other nonsense. All he wanted was an hour of silence. Still, he pulled it from his chest pocket and checked the screen.

_John Watson._

Dr Watson only called Mycroft regarding Sherlock and only when something was terribly wrong. He touched the screen to answer, clamping down on the sense of dread that sprang to unwelcome life within his chest. His brain was already cycling through all the possibilities.

“John.” Mycroft said silkily. “Always a pleasure to discover my brother is in trouble once again. What is it this time? Infiltrating another top-secret government facility? Or did you find him in a doss house again? Do you require me to provide bail?”

“Mycroft...” John’s voice was tense, hollow — Mycroft knew immediately that this was nothing as trivial as incarceration. “We’re at Royal London Hospital... Sherlock, he... he’s in Critical Care...”

“What happened?!” Mycroft’s voice was pure ice. He felt John Watson shiver through the phone line as he directed his driver to reroute to the Royal London.

“I don’t know! One second he was standing next to me, the next he’s in the water...”

“The water?!”

“The Thames.”

Mycroft’s blood ran cold. 

“We were at a murder.” John continued. “They’d pulled a corpse, or most of one, out of the river. Thank god the divers were there. Lestrade sent them in after Sherlock... but the current... they couldn’t get to him right away... and then he wasn’t breathing... we... we resuscitated him, induced him to vomit the water he’d swallowed... but he never fully regained consciousness — I think he’s concussed. He hasn’t woken up.”

“Where is he now?” Mycroft demanded. “Where exactly?!”

“I don’t know!” John sounded furious. “They won’t let me see him. I told them I was his doctor...”

Mycroft heard another voice, one whose Estuary accent he recognised. 

“Give it here, mate.” There was a shuffling noise through the phone as it was taken from John Watson. “Mr Holmes? It’s DI Lestrade. I’ve been in to see Sherlock and talked to the doctors. You should get here as soon as you can.”

“I’m on my way.” Mycroft assured him, the seriousness extinguishing the tiny thrill speaking with Lestrade always inspired. “It’s that... dire?” 

“If he makes it twenty-four hours, the doctors say he should live. But he... he was in the water almost fifteen minutes...”

“That long.” Mycroft was appalled.

“The river is cold — it’s even frozen over on the banks. Cold is good. You can last longer without oxygen when it’s this cold. But until he wakes up and an assessment can be made, they won’t know if there’s brain damage.”

 _Brain damage..._ Mycroft felt a wave of horror rising. He could not imagine a worse fate than losing some of his faculties. Being lessened. He’d rather be dead.

“They’re treating him for hypothermia, and he’s got a bit of a lump on his head. There’s also a good chance he’ll develop pneumonia or summat else nasty.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft managed. “I’m on my way.”

Twenty-three minutes later, Mycroft found Watson lurking outside Critical Care like a soldierly ghost. “With me.” He snapped as he passed. He pulled his identification for the desk and presented himself. “I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes. I’m his brother.”

The attendant scrutinised Mycroft’s I.D., consulted her computer and nodded. “Your brother is in B-3 — right down there.” She gestured at a glorified corridor with hospital beds spaced every four metres. The third bed was in the centre, thin privacy curtains pulled to shield the occupant from view. “Uhm, family only.” She said looking apologetically at Dr Watson. “Sorry.”

“He _is_ family.” Mycroft informed her tartly. “Come, John.

Sherlock looked small in the bed, and very young — more like the sweet little boy who had followed Mycroft around the garden asking thousands of questions than the troublesome, sharp-tongued, drug addicted adult he’d become. 

Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered what had happened to that sweet child.

Sherlock was swaddled in warming blankets, only his pale face and a fall of dark curls visible. He had a thick square of gauze taped above one ear and he was intubated, an ugly apparatus over his mouth sighed with each breath. His skin was waxen except for the dark red smudges around his closed eyes. A faint but pervasive foul odour permeated — river mud, Mycroft realised — stinking, sour mud from the banks of the Thames.

It was distressing, seeing his brother like this. If he woke up, would he be whole? Would there be physical or mental damage from the prolonged lack of oxygen? The idea made panic tingle up Mycroft’s spine... but Sherlock _had to wake up_. 

Mycroft could not suppress a shudder. 

Watson gripped the bed rail so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Oh Sherlock.” He sighed.

The man’s devotion to Sherlock was touching. Without John Watson — and his small coterie of friends — Mycroft had no doubt his little brother would have relapsed long before, if he were even still alive. Watson had lifted a heavy burden of care from Mycroft’s shoulders when he walked into Sherlock’s life. He was surprised the good doctor had not jumped into the Thames after him.

Ah, of course. Detective Inspector Lestrade had prevented John from plunging in after Sherlock.

Good man, Lestrade. Few people could tolerate Sherlock for long, but Lestrade had been a steady presence in his brother’s life for almost a decade. The policeman’s patience and good nature must be limitless. 

(He had put up with the unfaithful wife far longer than Mycroft thought reasonable.)

Examining John now, seeing him grim-faced and distraught under his stiff upper lip, Mycroft once again pondered whether the doctor had ever considered extending their intense friendship into the sexual realm. Watson appeared to receive everything he needed from Sherlock — friendship, camaraderie, excitement, trust, worth, support, companionship — it would only be the smallest step farther to extend their partnership into bed.

In Mycroft’s experience, straight men were not quite so straight with a willing man on his knees before them...

He shook off that train of thought, refocusing on the invalid. Sherlock looked so fragile.

“John, how did this happen?”

The doctor sighed, a shudder shaking his solid form. “I don’t know. He was right next to me on a... up on an embankment so we could see where the divers had dragged the body out of the river. He pointed at something in the water — he said it was a tidal pool under the bridge. I was looking for it, I wasn’t sure... I heard a... a yelp, I guess... then he was just... in the water. The current was so fast. He was swept away so quickly...” John rubbed his face tiredly. “It took a minute to organise the divers... I... I couldn’t...” John shuddered again. “Thank god, Greg was there.”

Mycroft considered. “Do you believe he fell or that he was pushed? Could he... have jumped?” _Surely, he hadn’t jumped!_

He half expected John would object to the question, berate him as he so often did on Sherlock’s behalf. But the doctor simply shrugged. “I don’t know, Mycroft. I don’t know. I should have... I shouldn’t have waited for the divers. I should have gone after him myself.”

“Then both of you would have drowned.” Mycroft declared stoutly. “You reacted exactly as you should have.”

They were quiet for a moment, listening to the soft, steady beeping of the heart rate monitor, the sigh of the oxygen pump. “I keep expecting him to open his eyes.” John murmured. “Yell at me for... for leaving the scene or sommat.”

Mycroft felt the same — he desperately wanted his brother to move. His deathly stillness was unnerving. 

“Have you told your parents?” John asked, never looking away from Sherlock. “Are they coming?”

“Good Lord, no.” It was out before Mycroft could stop it, blurted ill-advisedly into the quiet space between them. 

John looked up, startled, questions in his eyes. 

“I fear their presence would be... disruptive.” To say the least! “They have never been good with crises, not where Sherlock is concerned.” Or Eurus. Mycroft suspected they’d be equally as useless if he had ever presented them with an emergency, but he’d never tested that theory. “When he’s stable,” Mycroft said, choosing his words carefully. “I’ll have him moved to a private hospital and alert our parents.” He smiled dourly at Watson’s scandalised expression. “There’s no point disturbing the good people at the Royal London with Mummy’s histrionics.” Mycroft looked away from John Watson’s bourgeois expectations. “The last time Mummy was called to Sherlock’s bedside he overdosed simply to escape her.”

“Oh...” Watson digested that titbit, his gaze turning inward. “Oh!”

“Yes.” Mycroft agreed.

The soft trill of his work phone interrupted them. Mycroft pulled it from his pocket and looked at the caller’s ID. “Mph. I have to get this.” He told John. “You’ll stay with him?”

“Yeah.”

“If he wakes...”

“I’ll ring you.”

“Thank you, John.”

It took thirty minutes for Mycroft to again convince the bloviating American head-of-state that air strikes would not help the fourteen Britons, two Americans and twelve Indonesians currently on the kidnapped freighter. It was hardly hyperbole to say that the reality television President the world was enduring took more of Mycroft’s time these days than did the whole of Britain.

Ringing off, Mycroft retreated down the corridor, feeling his worry for Sherlock bunching his shoulders and roiling his stomach. He couldn’t believe his brother had simply _fallen_ , slipped in the vile-smelling mud into the drink. It was too mundane, too stupidly banal for Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft had long believed his brother would not live to old age, but his death should be... significant. A blaze of glory... a sacrifice for his ideals... for the _angels_.

It was more likely he’d spend it for John. 

Hadn’t he already done as much more than once? Jumped to his 'death' to protect the people he loved. For John and Mrs Hudson. And Lestrade. And then committed murder sentencing himself to a torturous death in the field, sacrificing himself on the altar of John Watson’s fragile marriage?

No. Sherlock Holmes did not die _accidentally_.

Mycroft felt a headache growing behind his eyes. A migraine — stressing over his younger siblings had always been his trigger. He had pills somewhere... 

Grimacing, he began to pace down the corridor. Mycroft shut his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The fluorescent lights were too bright, they lasered through his brain like knives. There must be someplace in this damnable hospital that wasn’t illuminated by their obnoxious brilliance.

When he opened them again, he found himself in the doorway of a tatty waiting area — likely where John Watson had been dispatched after being denied a place by Sherlock’s bed. It was empty of people now, the soft seating frayed under the (thankfully) dim fluorescents. There were vending machines along one wall, offering wine gums and dairy milk and a variety of sugary beverages. Lion bars.

Mycroft couldn’t be fussed. Digging the small vial of migraine pills from a pocket in his waistcoat he dry-swallowed one. His stomach churned rebelliously — he was supposed to take the medication with food and water. But now the thought of food made him swoopingly nauseated. Mycroft suppressed a gag.

He should go back to Critical Care. But the sight of Sherlock so small and unmoving...

Mycroft sat down in the grubby waiting area, willing his stomach to settle long enough for the medication to take effect. Twenty minutes, perhaps a half hour, and Mycroft would be right as rain. He would, he resolved, ask Anthea to arrange to have Sherlock moved to the private hospital — as soon as this bloody headache stopped torturing him quite so much. In the mean-time he was stuck here under the unforgiving fluorescents. Mycroft pressed the heels of his palms hard against the ache in his eye sockets.

Footsteps in the corridor. Familiar footsteps — Lestrade. Mycroft had not known the man was still here, but he found himself grateful. Detective Inspector Lestrade had a way about him that never failed to calm his fellows — and Mycroft was not immune to the effect. Perhaps it was his strength or patience or his plain old-fashioned _decency_. (Such surprising decency considering his childhood.) The man’s quiet presence would make this ordeal easier to bear. They didn’t know each other well — Mycroft was his superior since he’d begun moonlighting with MI5 and Lestrade had been unfailingly formal ever since. He had become ‘Mr Holmes’ again — the Detective Inspector had even begun trying to shut down Sherlock’s taunting. 

He hoped Lestrade would sit with him a while, share his aura of calm. Mycroft had no reason to expect that would do, but he wished it just the same.

“Greg? Greg Lestrade?”

Mycroft leaned forward and peered down the hall. The Detective Inspector had been accosted by a nurse. He was a balding, barrel-chested man in scrubs, a rosy-cheeked fireplug with an accent very like Lestrade’s own.

“Erm... yes?” Lestrade clearly did not recognise the nurse.

“Ricky Keener. From The Riverview.”

“Oh my god! Ricky!? How long has it been? Almost twenty years?”

“Can you believe it!?” Ricky chuckled. “But I’d recognise your pretty face anywhere.”

Lestrade reddened and shuffled, but did not have a chance to object. With a, “Come ‘ere, you!” Ricky pulled Lestrade into his arms. 

Mycroft’s eyes flew wide as the nurse kissed Lestrade on the mouth! Lestrade returned it a half-second late, clearly unprepared for the affectionate gesture. 

Mycroft blinked. A casual kiss on the lips was atypical, to say the least, for both British men in general and Lestrade in particular. A kiss that spouses would use to greet each other after a day at work was jarring to see between the nurse and the policeman. But the Detective Inspector did not seem bothered — nor even embarrassed. By his glowing smile, Mycroft had to say Lestrade was _pleased_.

The nurse pulled back and grinned. “Greg Lestrade, as I live and breathe! You look great.”

“Don’t know about that.” Lestrade grumbled. 

“You’ve got all your ‘air, you wanker.”

Lestrade chuckled, running a hand through his thick, pewter locks. “Yeah, well...” He gently brushed his knuckles over the thatch of chest hair protruding from the nurse’s V-neck scrubs. “So do you.”

The nurse’s laughter rang out. “Wish it was on me ‘ead!” He grinned at Lestrade warmly. “Still a copper?”

“Yeah. Detective now. Detective Inspector.”

“Well, la-di-da! And to think I knew you when!”

Lestrade laughed and it sounded... happy. It stole ten years from the Detective Inspector’s face and relaxed his posture. Abruptly, Lestrade was a different man — no longer a harried cop carrying the worries of the world. This was a Lestrade Mycroft had never seen. This was a Lestrade — no, this was _Greg_. _Greg_ who played weekend footie and had pints with John. _Greg_ who spoke gutter French and sparred with the lads at his boxing gym. _Greg_ who laughed easily and looked for the good in everyone. All the small details in Lestrade’s file came to life before Mycroft’s eyes. 

This was _Greg_ who greeted his gay friends with kisses. It fit now, Mycroft could see it in the line of his shoulders and the sparkle in his animated, brown eyes. 

“Ricky!” _Greg_ laughed. “God, it’s good to see you, mate! Are you still with that Italian bloke? Fabricio?”

“Lord, no!” Ricky said. “Found me a proper Englishman, din’ I — we have a flat in Brompton and three Chihuahuas, it’s _depressingly_ domestic.” The nurse paused, his mien turning more serious. “We missed you, you know. You should have come around.”

“Yeah. Sorry... you were all Daniel’s mates. I didn’t... well...” Lestrade shuffled uncomfortably. “After it ended, I figured he got The Riverview.”

 _Daniel_?! The Riverview?

“‘At was a rough un. You boys were so great together, peas in a pod, you were — shocked e’er-one when you split... but it all worked out, yeah? I ‘eard you got, er, married.” The nurse winked. “Switched to the o’er side.”

“You know I never took sides, Rick.”

Ricky laughed. “Still a red-hot bisexual then with a wife at ‘ome.” 

Bisexual? Lestrade!? Mycroft peered at the man now, stunned... 

“Well... I’m divorced...”

“Oh, _really_?” The barrel-chested man fluttered. “If you’re in the market, I know a bloke who would eat you up with a spoon.”

“No. No, not in the market. No.” Lestrade chuckled, still looking more at ease than Mycroft had ever seen him. “A mate of mine is here in Critical Care. Not really thinking much about, erm, dating.”

“Critical Care? It’s not the dark-‘aired bloke who fell in the river, innit? The one with the short boyfriend standing sentry?”

Lestrade cleared his throat — Mycroft could see his simultaneous glee and heartbreak to hear Watson referred to as Sherlock’s boyfriend. “Erm, yeah. We’re pretty worried about ‘im.”

Ricky touched Lestrade’s arm compassionately. “Most of the time, cases like ‘at, they’re just fine, Greg.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Come ‘ere.” The fireplug embraced Lestrade again, enfolding him in generous, comforting arms. This time the Detective Inspector returned the hug wholeheartedly, allowing the nurse to console him.

Mycroft sat back, concealing himself from the pair in the hall. Detective Inspector Lestrade! Mycroft could not recall the last time he’d discovered hidden depths in, well, anyone, let alone someone with whom he’d been acquainted for years. How had the stolid, careworn, _cuckolded_ , Detective Inspector hidden this facet of himself from Mycroft’s notice?

The cheating wife, Mycroft decided, had a lot for which to answer. As did twenty years in a job dealing with gruesome death and human cruelty. Yet despite it all, _Greg_ was still there, underneath the weary facade, aching to be free. 

Mycroft surprised himself by how much he wanted _Greg_ to be free.

His unsettled stomach gave way to an unsettled mind. Mycroft felt... inadequate — he’d hoped for Detective Inspector Lestrade to sit with him quietly, thinking to take solace from his calm presence, and perhaps to give some...

It was unpleasant to be reminded quite so forcefully how emotionally stunted he was. How incapable of simple friendship. How unprepared Mycroft’s life had made him for the task of making Gregory Lestrade smile.

The sympathetic bear hug enveloping Lestrade was what the man needed, not Mycroft’s uptight politesse.

Bisexual! 

How had Mycroft not seen it?! How had he not known?! Lestrade had been rigorously vetted before being brought into MI5 — not to mention Mycroft’s own background check when the Detective had become part of Sherlock’s life. 

Regardless, Mycroft could deduce ninety-five percent of what was in a file simply by spending five minutes with the person. (Not that he did, he preferred the reading. Five minutes could be an eternity — he hadn’t lasted one minute with poor, besotted Miss Hooper.) 

Lestrade’s background had been more interesting than most. By all rights, the man should have been a smuggler — how he’d gone from being a ruffian in Calais to an upstanding copper in London was as mysterious as it was improbable.

And unlike Molly Hooper. Mycroft had spent time with Lestrade. There was a decade of meetings in Baker Street, at crime scenes, in Lestrade’s claustrophobic office at the Met, in hospitals... Mycroft had easily deduced the Gallic influences; the early brushes with addiction and abandonment; the sharp intelligence routinely hidden to gull people into underestimating him; his talent for fitting in wherever he went with his easy charm and good looks, that served him so well in his undercover work; his compulsion to help young criminals reform, to help junkies get clean, realise their potential...

As Mycroft listened to Lestrade finish exchanging contact information with his old friend, he no longer wanted Lestrade to see him, to sit with him. He _fervently_ wished for the policeman to pass the lounge without noticing him. Mycroft did not think he could bear to see his inadequacy reflected in those soft, brown eyes. He listened to footsteps approaching, curling in on himself in the tatty upholstered chair. 

The footsteps paused then came directly towards him. Mycroft inwardly cringed as Lestrade took the seat next to his. Mycroft could feel his heat and mass, sense the cant of his broad shoulders and the weight of the policeman’s gaze.

Lestrade smelled vaguely of coffee, damp cotton and sour river mud. But even with muck drying and flaking off his trouser cuffs, Mycroft could detect just a hint of the reassuringly _male_ scent that was Lestrade’s own. It was a scent he knew, a scent to which he had — to his deep mortification — responded before.

A large hand fell on Mycroft’s shoulder and rubbed a small circle. “Hey there.” Lestrade rumbled. “His chances are good, Mr Holmes... Mycroft.”

“Yes...” Mycroft opened his eyes and sat up straight. Lestrade’s hand stayed on his shoulder, rubbing distractingly back and forth. More than anything, Mycroft wanted Lestrade to go away. He took a breath. “Apologies, Detective Inspector, I could not help but overhear your conversation with Nurse Keener.” He waited for Lestrade to recoil, to react.

“Yeah, I figured.” The policeman did not sound upset. 

“You are very calm in the face of being outed.”

Lestrade shrugged, but Mycroft read his sudden discomfort in the flex of his hands and the tension in his jaw. “You don’t need to worry, Mr Holmes, I’m not a security risk — I don’t care who knows, I can’t be blackmailed o’er it.”

Good lord, he was concerned for his job with MI5! “Agents are no longer required to be heterosexual.” Mycroft assured him. “If they were, someone like myself could not be amongst their ranks.” 

“Oh... er, right. I didn’t...” Lestrade trailed off, his eyes flashing self-deprecating humour. 

“And I believe the Met’s policies have entered the twenty-first century as well.” Mycroft observed dryly.

“They have.” Lestrade confirmed. “No one gives a rat’s.”

“Indeed.”

“Not officially anyway.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, I see no reason it should be broadcast.” Mycroft told him. “I enjoy my privacy, and I respect yours. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Lestrade’s chuckle was somewhere between bitter and wry. “I know I don’t have secrets from you and your brother. No one does, yeah? If I’m honest, I’m surprised Sherlock’s not blurted it out in front of me whole team, the wanker.” The policeman’s tone shifted as he remembered Sherlock’s condition. “Well, he’ll have more chances. He’ll be ok.”

“Sherlock’s recovery is far from certain.” Mycroft told him, sounding sharper than he’d intended. The headache throbbed behind his eyes and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone in a dark room. He stood up, slipping out from under Lestrade’s hand and patted his pockets for cigarettes he no longer carried. Why had he quit?! “False reassurance, Inspector, is unnecessary.”

Lestrade stood up. He was between Mycroft and the door. “There’s every reason to be optimistic.” He said gently. “That’s the truth. Hey...” Mycroft did not know what the Detective Inspector saw in his face, but it made his brow furrow with concern. He stepped in and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, holding him close. 

Mycroft stiffened, his first reaction to pull away, affronted. But with his face next to Lestrade’s hair, the Detective Inspector’s personal scent filled Mycroft’s awareness. It was heady stuff, a blend of spice, soap, coffee and musk that was intensely male. He inhaled deeply and discovered that his arms clutched awkwardly at Lestrade’s sides

When was the last time he’d been embraced, held, for any reason? Mycroft could not recall.

Lestrade’s hand rubbed his back slowly and Mycroft shuddered, drunk on the man’s scent. He sank further into the embrace. He realised his eyes were wet, and he could not for the life of him work out why. 

_What was he doing_? Mycroft tensed and pulled away, his eyes shifting nervously from Lestrade’s face. “Apologies, Detective Inspector...” He began.

“Have you eaten?”

“Pardon?” The non-sequitur threw him off.

“I don’t know about you, but I missed dinner — sommat like this happens and I completely forget about food. End up miserable with low-blood sugar wondering why I feel dodgy.” Lestrade told him. “Have you eaten anything this evening?”

“I’m fine, Inspector.” Mycroft insisted.

“I don’t doubt it. But that’s not what I asked.” Lestrade said pleasantly. “Come with me to the canteen. Eat sommat — this could be a very long night.”

Mycroft hesitated. He _hadn’t_ eaten anything since a rather vexing lunch meeting more than eight hours before. Some food might settle his stomach, help the migraine pill work more quickly...

“P-perhaps some soup.”

Lestrade’s grin was like the sun — Mycroft felt oddly giddy to have earned it. Clearly, the combination of worry for Sherlock and the debilitating migraine was getting to him. Regardless, he allowed Lestrade to lead him to the hospital canteen.

“Have you sampled the cuisine here?” Mycroft asked dubiously. 

The good-natured scoff Lestrade gave him was less than reassuring, but when the policeman’s hand pressed gently against Mycroft’s lower back, urging him out of the lift, that strange, giddy delight drowned any other objection.

He joined the queue next to the Detective Inspector, eschewing a tray. Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a tray.” Mycroft told him. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying a bowl of soup.”

“You can use mine.” Lestrade told him.

“You’re very kind, but that won’t be necessary.”

Lestrade nodded. “Fine.” He said — but Mycroft understood it to mean ‘ _We’ll see_.’

“I don’t need a tray to carry soup, Inspector.”

“Ooo, Pret!” Lestrade enthused as he discovered the ready-made sandwiches from Pret A Manger. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” Mycroft murmured, amused despite the throbbing behind his eyeballs. He scouted the soups on offer, praying there would be something fresh and appealing in one of the fat warming kettles.

He passed over the potato leek and beef barley to a kettle of tomato soup, a childhood favourite. His eyes sought out Lestrade as he ladled the hot soup into his bowl — the canteen was warm and the Detective Inspector removed his jacket as he made his way down the line, revealing a rumpled white shirt. It was made of cheap, durable fabric, generously cut for ease of movement, but it could not disguise the breadth of the policeman’s shoulders nor the trimness of his waist. His ugly poly-cotton trousers clung to his thick thighs and shapely bum — Lestrade was quite frankly beautiful.

And _bisexual_. 

It was absurd to want him — Mycroft had always been very strict with himself. Nothing good came of pining for a straight, married man. It was impossible not to notice Lestrade, not to admire his handsomeness and virility, his pleasing good-nature, the ease with which he carried himself... but Mycroft had never allowed himself to dwell upon the man’s many charms. He put them firmly from his mind.

But now... knowing that it was not entirely _hopeless_ , that whilst still highly improbable, it was no longer _inconceivable_ that Lestrade might look at Mycroft with something more than kindness...

“Wotcher.”

Mycroft jumped, sloshing tomato soup into the saucer beneath. “Oh!”

Lestrade stood in front of him, tray full of food, an amused expression on his fine features. “Come on, table over here.” He said, striding past Mycroft.

Grabbing napkins to soak up the tomato soup overflow, Mycroft followed the Detective Inspector. He could feel his cheeks burning — had Lestrade caught him looking? 

The table was small and Lestrade was spreading food across its surface. Mycroft set his soup down and sat, conscious that his feet were apt to touch the policeman’s under the narrow table. Lestrade shoved a plate towards him. “Here.”

Mycroft frowned at it. “What’s this?” 

“Cheese toastie.” Lestrade told him unwrapping his own sandwich. He pinned Mycroft with a look. “You need more than soup.”

“I... I’m not accustomed to a large meal in the evening.” Mycroft protested. “The soup is more than adequate.”

“Mycroft...” A large, tan hand found his wrist and settled on it, radiating warmth. Surprised, Mycroft looked up to find Lestrade’s brow creased with concern. “It’s gonna be a long night, yeah. Eat the bloody sarnie.”

A wave of exhaustion crashed over Mycroft, robbing him of the strength to disagree. He nodded curtly — and was rewarded with a fond smile. Lestrade squeezed his wrist, then withdrew his hand. “Good. You’re too thin.”

Mycroft scoffed. “No one has _ever_ accused me of being too thin.”

“No? Don’t have someone looking out for you then?”

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” He ate a spoonful of soup. It could be hotter, but the creamy-acid taste was soothing.

Lestrade pushed the plate of toasted cheese a few centimetres closer to Mycroft with a pointed look.

“Fine!” Mycroft snapped. He hadn’t had a cheese toastie in twenty years. It was so _greasy_. Mycroft disliked fried foods. He took a small bite.

The texture was good — crunchy not soggy with oil as Mycroft had feared. And the flavour complemented the tomato soup superbly. Mycroft had a second tentative bite — abruptly he realised he was _ravenous_. He took a third bite and was mortified to hear himself moan.

Lestrade only glanced briefly at Mycroft as he ate his own sandwich, hiding — poorly — his satisfaction as Mycroft devoured soup and cheese toastie. 

In an embarrassingly short time, Mycroft had cleared the plate of all but crumbs and scraped the last bit of soup from the bowl. 

“You need someone to look after you.” Lestrade observed mildly, shoving a plate of fruit to Mycroft’s side of the table. 

“Careful. I might think you’re volunteering.” Mycroft muttered with a sneer. 

“Maybe I should.” Lestrade shoved the fruit towards him again, emphatically this time. “It’s grapes.” As if Mycroft could not see what was directly in front of him.

“Obviously.”

Lestrade’s expression hardened. “Eat.” He demanded. “They’re good for you. Full of antioxidants, vitamin C, potassium...” He flicked the little plate closer still.

Sighing, Mycroft tore a small section off the bunch and put one in his mouth. In truth, he still had that hollow feeling that begged to be filled. At least it seemed that his headache was beginning to ease. “Is this how you treat my brother? Like an errant child?”

“Pretty much. Yeah.” Lestrade said easily. “Don’t you?”

“Touché.” He enjoyed Lestrade’s smile only briefly, concern for his brother growing urgent once again. “I fear I have left Sherlock too long.” Mycroft said standing up.

Lestrade stood as well and clapped Mycroft on the shoulder, his big hand warm and reassuring. “Sherlock’s a stubborn bastard. He’ll pull through.”

Mycroft nodded, hoping he was correct. “Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

—-  
DIASPORA 

Critical Care appeared deserted when Mycroft returned, but he could hear a nurse speaking down one of the spokes that radiated from the main desk over the sounds of machines whirring and beeping. The lights had been dimmed in Sherlock’s corridor and his privacy curtains extended fully. Within this cocoon, Sherlock looked much the same, swathed in blankets, the breathing tube still down his throat. A spot of blood had appeared on the gauze over his ear. This was not the first time Mycroft had seen his little brother thus, at least two of his overdoses had resulted in intubation...

Watson sat next to Sherlock’s bed, his fingers interlaced with his friend’s limp ones, his head bowed so low his forehead rested on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. Mycroft suspected the doctor was praying to god or the fates or to Sherlock himself, begging and bargaining for his life.

Mycroft had done much the same more times than he chose to count.

Had Sherlock jumped? ? Mycroft could not believe that he would do that to John again — not since he comprehended how terribly it had hurt his friend. Still, it was not easy to contend with unrequited desire. Had he been overcome with longing, loneliness and crashing boredom and decided the rushing cold of the Thames was preferable to a life of unrelenting ennui, and of wanting what he could never quite have. What Watson would not give him. 

It was hardly Dr Watson’s fault. He loved Sherlock as well as he was able, but he could no more desire a man than Mycroft could a woman. Sherlock, Mycroft knew, held onto a thin hope based on the demonstrable malleability of human sexuality. Watson _could_ , Sherlock hypothesised, desire not men but one _specific_ man. Within their particular situation, their love might transcend a mere construct like heterosexuality.

It wasn’t impossible. Mycroft had witnessed such situational malleability first-hand. (But only in Uni and prison, he had reminded a stubborn Sherlock.) Mycroft felt such cases likely depended on where one fell upon the Kinsey scale. If zero was completely heterosexual, six completely homosexual and three bisexual, equally attracted to both sexes, then perhaps a heterosexual man who could fall in love, into desire, with a specific man under the correct conditions, was not a pure zero. He was a one or an ought point seven on the scale...

Not that it mattered — Watson was so constrained by his upbringing that he could never admit to any homosexual desire. Not even for Sherlock.

What would the man do, Mycroft wondered, if he could rouse Sherlock with a kiss?

When his brother woke, Mycroft would know if he’d jumped, he could read his Sherlock like a book. It might be time to take a larger role in Sherlock’s life, no matter how much he protested.

“Hey, how is he?” Lestrade whispered, sinking into the chair next to Mycroft’s and handing him a Styrofoam cup of tea. 

“The same.” Mycroft replied softly, unwilling to disturb Watson. “Thank you.”

 _Three..._

Lestrade’s presence was comforting — something solid to depend upon. Mycroft realised that his migraine was completely gone. The Detective Inspector had been astute to feed him.

 _Someone to take care of me_ , Lestrade had said. Over the years Mycroft had had boyfriends — the last two years ago, a Canadian attaché working in the embassy. Naël was seven years younger than Mycroft, a former baseball player with the most amazing back muscles Mycroft had ever had the privilege of touching. He’d spoken French in bed and made coq a vin in Mycroft’s kitchen. Had Naël taken care of him? Perhaps he’d tried... Mycroft wasn’t an easy man to be with. When he’d suggested they move in together Mycroft arranged for a promotion that took Naël back to Canada. Though he'd missed the company and the sex, his primary feeling after Naël had gone was relief.

What would it be like to have Lestrade looking after him? For the first time, Mycroft allowed himself to picture it, coming home to the calm, comforting presence of the Detective Inspector. Lestrade would be worn out from his day at work, stretched out on the divan watching the news on BBC ONE, but he’d get up and wrap his arms around Mycroft, rub circles on his back until he melted under the policeman’s hands... He remembered what it had felt like, just an hour ago, to rest in Lestrade's embrace. He had felt... protected... cared for... content... it had been... disconcerting... lovely...

Lestrade would bully Mycroft into eating — starchy, greasy takeaways, biscuits and cakes, cheese toasties, fish and chips... Mycroft would hate it.

Best to not even entertain the idea, to move his mind to other things. The American President, that braying tangerine... Mycroft was impatient for his term to be over. In the meantime, managing the man was excruciatingly dull. Lord above, the G6 conference had just about killed him... he hadn't even been able to enjoy Paris.

He wondered if Lestrade would speak French in bed. Oh god... Lestrade in Mycroft’s bed, tan skin under crisp linens, strong arms wrapped around him, moving together a slick heat between them, Lestrade’s weight pressing Mycroft into the mattress...

He had long assumed Lestrade was as straight as John Watson. He had been determined not to emulate Sherlock, pining for a man who could never return his regard. But now... was Lestrade a perfect three, equally attracted to men and women? It was still difficult to believe... even knowing, Mycroft could not deduce his bisexuality from observing the man — and his gaydar was generally excellent. 

Lestrade’s dedication to his marriage — and to his job — had provided ample camouflage for his sexuality. Then the divorce... it had trod upon the Detective Inspector’s spirit, trampling his mood, his libido and his sense of worth into the dust. It had distressed Mycroft to see Lestrade like that, so clearly depressed and lonely... It had bothered him so much Mycroft had decided he needed to fix the situation. 

He had, after some deliberation (and a rigorous security check) extended an invitation to Lestrade to work with MI5, to go undercover and gather intel on a white nationalist group suspected of fomenting domestic terrorism. After the initial ask and acceptance, Mycroft had no direct role in Lestrade’s mission — he had always been careful to limit his time with the attractive policeman, it wouldn't do to become attached (ever a danger with the charming Detective Inspector). But Mycroft had been pleased to observe that Lestrade’s confidence and good cheer returned quickly thereafter.

Mycroft reviewed Lestrade’s field reports, of course, and found them detailed and astute. Lestrade was good at infiltration — outgoing, humorous and able to mask his keen intelligence, he played the lad’s lad to a tee. He wasn’t pushy, he knew instinctively when to pull back, when to feign ignorance or disinterest and walk away — and when to buy a round and invite confidences. Other men liked and accepted him, they thought nothing of doing business with Lestrade in the room. He proved himself invaluable.

It was not, perhaps, so surprising. Lestrade had had not had an easy or privileged upbringing, bouncing between one of the roughest council estates in East London and gritty Calais, he’d grown up with the sorts of hard, aggrieved men and women he was sent to infiltrate. 

Lestrade’s mother had passed when he was very young and his father, though loving and affectionate, slowly succumbed to alcoholism, leaving Lestrade to largely care for himself best he could. At nine, he was shunted off to live with his grandparents across the channel in Calais. The French port city was not a good place to raise children. Lestrade had run with a street gang more than he had gone to school. That should have been the genesis of Lestrade’s story — a French thug with a British passport running drugs and illegals across the channel. 

Lestrade, it seemed, had surfed the outer layers of the gangs without ever becoming subsumed. He surfaced in Dover when he was seventeen and took a job on the docks, a profession only marginally less rough than the street gang — and a prime position for setting up a smuggling operation. Lestrade was on the fast track to a criminal career.

But somehow, he had changed direction — within three years, Lestrade had left the docks for London and qualified for the police academy. His diligence and intelligence, natural leadership and native ability — and of course, his good looks — had taken him up the ladder steadily to his current position.

The aptitude he’d shown in Calais — to gain the trust of the gangsters without becoming one of them (along with decades of experience being a regular bloke in the pubs of London, and a copper’s instincts) — made him ideal for his intelligence-gathering mission with MI5. 

Mycroft wondered if Lestrade’s non-conforming sexuality had kept him from ever fully committing to the gangs. Had this difference been the secret ingredient that had saved him from a life of criminality? Or had he always had his eye on law enforcement, the gang half situational, half expedience?

A murmuring invaded his consciousness — Lestrade’s rumble answered by John Watson’s querulous mutter. 

“Oh...” He must have drifted off. Mycroft straightened his spine and stopped himself rubbing his eyes like a sleepy child. His cup of tea, he observed, had been taken from his hand and placed carefully on the floor where no one was apt to kick it over. Lestrade, of course.

The Detective Inspector, still in his shirtsleeves, leaned close to Watson, the weary curve of his back inherently graceful. He was a pleasure to behold.

Unlike his own awkward form — Mycroft had adopted a ramrod posture and statue-like stillness at an early age to combat his clumsy limbs and inelegant lines. Just as Watson had compensated for his lack of height with a willingness to let his fists speak for him.

But Sherlock, like Lestrade, had not had to try to compensate for physical defects — he had always been elegant. The delicate moppet with a tangle of black curls, running effortlessly around the garden had become a distinctively attractive man with unruly black curls running effortlessly around London. Far from being plain like Mycroft, Sherlock’s strong features — which by rights should not work together — blended harmoniously into an otherworldly beauty. His addiction had taken no toll on his body, the scars from the brutal whipping in Serbia lay in harmonious curves on his shapely back — faded crimson arabesques on an ivory field. Even the keloid on his chest where Mary Watson had shot him was a pleasing heart shape centred between his small, perfect nipples. Everything about Mycroft’s brother was singular and magnificent. Only his genius was second-rate, a pale imitation of Mycroft’s own.

It occurred to him to consider, once again, how their upbringing had shaped them as Lestrade’s and Watson’s had done. He and Sherlock had been to all appearances much more fortunate. They had ample family money, two living parents, a lovely home in the country with frequent forays into London. They’d been educated at some of the best schools in Britain, and had never wanted for any material thing. 

However, it had long been apparent to Mycroft that Violet and Siger Holmes should never have had children. They weren't cut out for it. They found fulfillment in their work and their relationship with each other, children were not much more than a nuisance. For seven years Mycroft lived quietly with their benign neglect and distant affection, largely raising himself. When Sherlock was born, Mycroft had been drawn to the infant — yearning, he now understood — for someone to love, someone to love him, need him, as his parents never would. 

And Sherlock _had_ loved him and his love had filled Mycroft. It might have been the happiest time of his life, caring for the needs of that sweet child. But when Sherlock was seven, Mycroft had been sent away to school and Sherlock had never forgiven him.

Sherlock might still love him, Mycroft could never be sure, but he had not _needed_ Mycroft — or had not wanted to need him — since that agonising separation.

Their parents appeared not to notice.

Lestrade, at least, had had grandparents who cherished him. They had taken him in gladly, parenting him with joy. Watson’s unremarkable middle-class family, despite their faults, had loved John and his sister well — their childhood much more idyllic than what Mycroft and Sherlock had known. 

How had he come to ruminate on their childhoods? He hadn't dwelled upon Mummy and Father's shortcomings in years. Mycroft didn't like to think about what he had lost, what might have been. What should have been.

The diaspora of his thoughts troubled Mycroft. He was used to being disciplined, not allowing his attention to wander away from the topic at hand — which tonight was the best care for Sherlock’s health. Unfortunately, until he was stable enough to be moved, there was nothing else Mycroft could do.

It was the waiting, he thought… and the startling revelation about Lestrade. The world had tilted and now Mycroft had to reexamine everything he had thought to be true.

If Sherlock did not wake, the world would never right itself. All surety would be lost.

Mycroft watched Lestrade and Watson talking quietly, Watson still clinging to Sherlock’s hand… his brother’s capacity for friendship had astonished Mycroft. Lestrade had been the first — long before John walked into his life, before Mrs Hudson had written to him about her husband on death row, Detective Inspector Lestrade had somehow looked past Sherlock’s filthy, junkie exterior and had seen his potential. 

Mycroft had been suspicious of the detective’s motives at first, but after he’d had satisfied himself that Lestrade wasn’t preying on Sherlock, that he was, in fact, beneficial, he followed their interactions with fascination. Mycroft had thought perhaps he had gotten it the wrong way ‘round, that Sherlock was infatuated with the good-looking policeman — his brother had been profligate with his affections in the throes of his addiction.

But no. Without the drugs, Sherlock retreated to functional asexuality. (A state Mycroft envied, yet never managed to achieve.) It wasn’t until John Watson entered Sherlock’s life that a frisson of sexual tension appeared.

Had Sherlock jumped? He was self-destructive, Mycroft could not deny that. The overdoses had stopped when Lestrade came into the picture, bribing Sherlock with access to crime scenes if he were clean. But he had used during his two years away from London dismantling Moriarty’s organisation. And he had used again after Watson’s marriage. Sherlock had _claimed_ it was for a case, to catch Magnusson’s attention. But there had been many more effective ways to achieve that. His brother had simply been bored without John. Bored and lonely and uncaring if his cries for attention caused harm — to himself or to those that loved him.

Miss Hooper had been livid. Lestrade’s face had hardened, hiding his devastation behind a self-protective mask — much as he must have hidden his distress from his wife when he discovered her cheating. Sherlock had ignored them both and gloried in the renewal of John’s devotion. 

Lord, Mycroft was tired. He thought about Lestrade’s arms, strong and sure around his body. He remembered his scent… how lovely would it be to sleep in sheets saturated with that virile scent…

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft jumped at the shout, then jumped up — the heart rate monitor beeped more quickly, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered and his hand moved within Watson’s. He moaned and struggled, looking around wildly. 

“I’ll get the nurse.” Lestrade announced and he was gone.

Watson leaned over Sherlock, into his line of vision, to reassure him. “You’re in hospital, Sherlock — you fell in the Thames, do you remember? Calm down, you’re intubated.”

Mycroft approached the bed — Sherlock glared at him reflexively. 

Watson was checking the readouts on the monitors. “Relax, Sherlock.” He soothed. “I can extubate. Just need a… OK…” The doctor unhooked the oxygen hose from the breathing tube and inserted a small tool in its place. “Just some suction, making sure your airway is clear.” He murmured. He tossed the tool aside and pulled off the tape holding the thing in place. Sherlock groaned and thrashed.

“Come now.” Mycroft tutted. “That didn’t hurt.” He was smirking — no he was smiling — elated that his brother had woken. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, his gaze speaking volumes. Mycroft felt weak with relief — no brain damage.

Watson did something to the apparatus and it sighed. “Take a deep breath and then exhale.” He instructed Sherlock. On the exhale, he pulled the tube from Sherlock’s throat — it was longer than Mycroft expected and Sherlock gagged and coughed. “That’s good, that’s perfect. Now just breathe normally — any trouble?”

Sherlock croaked something, grimaced and shook his head.

“Yeah, your throat’ll be sore for a while. Don’t try to talk.”

“If I’d known this would shut you up, brother mine, I’d have thrown you in the Thames long ago.” Mycroft said pleasantly. Lestrade, who had returned with the nurse, laughed aloud. Sherlock stared daggers.

“Oi! What did you do?!” The nurse snatched the tube from Watson’s hand. “You can’t take this out.”

“I’m a doctor.” Watson informed her. “In fact, I’m _his_ doctor. His airways are clear and the endotracheal tube was causing him distress. I thought it best to remove it right away.”

“You’re not a doctor in _this_ hospital.” The nurse said icily, “Move, I need to check the patient.” She elbowed her way into Watson’s place at Sherlock’s bedside and asked him to take a deep breath.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but inhaled for her. He looked intently at Mycroft as the nurse noted his vital signs and checked his blood pressure.

“Never fear, brother mine, I have already arranged a transfer.”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes with a sigh. Watson crowded the nurse until she left, telling them she’d be back with the doctor. Her tone said, ‘the _real_ doctor.’ 

“I’ll just ring Mummy now, shall I? Let her know you’re alive.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “Mycroft!” He croaked

Lestrade chuckled.

“Stop it, both of you.” John Watson demanded. “Mycroft, why don’t you go harass the doctors, or summat. Sherlock, keep your mouth shut. I’ll get you some ice chips.”

With a last look into Sherlock’s eyes — Mycroft asking if he needed anything and Sherlock’s blue eyes replying eloquently that all he needed was for Mycroft to bugger off — he took his leave. He would not go home until Sherlock had been moved to the private hospital and seen by a specialist, but now Mycroft could relax. 

“You should go home, Inspector.” Mycroft told Lestrade as they left Critical Care together. “Get some rest.”

Lestrade nodded. “Think I will.” He stretched his shoulders and yawned. “What about you?”

“I shall be here for the duration.” Mycroft said and smiled his most pleasant ‘I’m perfectly fine’ smile. “Thank you for dinner, Detective Inspector. I needed it more than I realised.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have let you pay.” 

“It’s nothing.” Lestrade shrugged with a lopsided smile. With a start, Mycroft realised that he was speaking with _Greg_ , the happier, younger, more casual alter ego of Detective Inspector Lestrade. “Least I could do.”

“It was much more than that.” Mycroft assured him, surprised to hear the warmth in his own voice. Good Lord, he liked _Greg_! 

He sighed internally — the genie, it seemed, was out of the bottle. But that didn’t mean he had to do anything about it. He was tempted — he would enjoy getting to know _Greg_. Mycroft hesitated. Should he? Lestrade was no longer out of the realm of possibility — though that _didn’t_ mean he was at all interested in Mycroft. 

It would be a simple thing to ask the man out. He studied the Detective Inspector, attempting to gauge if such a request would be unwelcome — if he declined, then Mycroft could move on... leave this troublesome _hope_ behind. But if he agreed... 

Mycroft cleared his throat, wincing at the awkward sound. “Lestrade, erm... perhaps... you’ll allow me to return the favour... take _you_ out to dinner sometime soon...?” His adrenal response was greater than he’d anticipated — he could feel his heartbeat soar.

“Oh...” Lestrade’s surprise was palpable. He frowned, looking for all the world as if he were attempting to solve a complex mathematical problem in his head.

The startled silence grew unbearable. “We could get to know one another... er... better.” Mycroft said, trying to make his intentions extremely clear.

“So... a date?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft said stiffly. “If that’s amenable.”

“That would be... I’d like that, Mycroft. Very much. But...“ Lestrade’s dark eyes were serious. “Is it kosher? You’re my boss’s boss at the agency, yeah? Is it... _allowed_?”

More accurately, Mycroft was the boss of the boss of the boss of the supervisor of the boss of Lestrade’s boss. “There’s a protocol.” He told Lestrade. “Paperwork. We do not work together directly so there would be no problem.” Mycroft could not believe how badly he was bolloxing this. “I would never do anything to harm your standing with the organisation.”

“Appreciate that.” Lestrade looked at him from under his lashes, a mischievous smile beginning to form on his lips. “Yeah, OK. Send me the forms — or just show me where to sign.”

“I shall.” Mycroft hid shaking hands in his pockets. “First thing.”

Lestrade bumped Mycroft’s shoulder with his own as they continued down the hall. “Dinner then.” He said, flashing a nervous smile at Mycroft. 

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile in return. “Would, erm, Saturday next suit? That should be ample time to sort the paperwork. Seven?” He would take Lestrade to a Pakistani place knew of with excellent curries — he’d reserve a table in one of the private alcoves. “I can pick you up.”

“Sounds good.” Lestrade pressed the button for the lift then turned to Mycroft, his face crumpling into a grin. “I’m glad you asked. Surprised me a little, but...” He nodded. “I’m glad.” 

The Detective Inspector’s sincerity calmed Mycroft’s nerves, but he kept his shaky hands firmly in his trouser pockets. Lestrade stepped into the lift. “Let me know how Sherlock’s getting on, yeah?”

“I shall.” Mycroft pledged. The doors closed on Lestrade’s glowing smile.

He lingered a moment, indulging the cautious pleasure lighting his own face. Then Mycroft Holmes composed himself and returned to his brother’s bedside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer, rambling piece, lacking discipline.
> 
> Comments, as always, appreciated.


	3. It Had All Been Going So Well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first kiss.
> 
> **Warning**  
> This chapter could be triggering for people with abuse issues.

_What are you doing?”_

“I think that’d be obvious.” Lestrade’s smile glowed and he tilted his face so that his lips touched Mycroft’s again — more firmly this time, his weight pushing the taller man gently against the wall, one hot hand under his jacket, heavy against his waist.

The panic spiked, zero to sixty in three milliseconds. Mycroft wanted it to stop! He tried to push the man off, but he couldn’t breathe, he was suffocating, _he had to get away_! He lashed out wildly, with all the strength he could muster. _Stop!_ He didn’t have enough air to force the word from his throat. He was dying! _Stop, stop, stop, oh please stop!_ Mycroft was choking on _stop_.

“Oof!” Lestrade jerked away abruptly. “Ow! Fuck! What the hell, Mycroft?” 

Mycroft backed away, putting two nervous metres between them, gulping for air. He wanted to run, but he didn’t want to turn his back on the man. The surety that he would catch Mycroft, tackle him to the ground and pin him down, would not let Mycroft take his eyes off him.

The man’s frown was frightening, his anger making his handsome face ugly. Slowly his face softened into a complicated expression and he straightened up. Mycroft recognised Lestrade with some shock — the Detective Inspector held up a hand, palm forward. A peace offering. “Ok.” Lestrade said. “Relax. Yeah?”

“Why did you do that?” Mycroft asked, breathless. Panic still prickled over his skin making him feel clammy and sick.

Lestrade ran a hand through his sterling locks. “Why did I…? I... I guess I thought the date was going really well...”

“Date?! This isn’t a date!”

“Erm... you asked me out to dinner.”

“To talk about Sherlock!”

“OK.” Lestrade said reasonably. “But we haven’t talked about him.”

“It wasn’t a date! I’ve never been on a date in my life!”

Lestrade raised both hands in surrender. “OK... Mycroft... I got the wrong end of the stick, I guess. ‘M sorry. Take a breath, yeah? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

_“I’m not upset.”_

“No of course not.” Lestrade said drily. “My mistake.”

“It wasn’t... why? Why would you think we were on a date?!”

Lestrade sighed. “Why?... You took me to a nice restaurant, bought me dinner. We shared a bottle of wine, you laughed at my lame jokes. You told me stories about when you were just starting out in government service — you listened to me yammer on about me New Wave band back in the day... I like you, Mycroft. A lot. It seemed like you liked me too...”

“You’re bleeding.”

Lestrade wiped his palm over his mouth and looked at the blood. “S’OK.” He said. “S’nuffin’.”

“Why are you bleeding?” 

The copper’s eyebrows shot up — but he quickly controlled his expression. “You hit me pretty hard, I guess your ring... My. No, don’t...” He pre-empted Mycroft’s confused apology. “If you weren’t expecting... if my... if it was unwelcome... just glad you went for me jaw instead of me balls.”

“This... I don’t...” 

“Yeah, OK. Deep breath — you’re hyperventilating, My. Stop and take a breath.”

Mycroft took a halting breath.

“Good.” Lestrade said and stepped closer. “That’s great. Come on, we can breath together. Big inhale...”

“No... don’t...” Mycroft backed away from Lestrade, tripping off the curb.

Lestrade stopped his forward motion, holding his hands out in a ‘steady on’ gesture. “Careful, My!” 

“Stay back!” Mycroft panted, looking around frantically for an escape. He threw up an arm. “I have to go.”

“Mycroft... wait...”

The shiny, black saloon was already pulling to a stop, perfectly placed for Mycroft to fling open the door and clamber in, slamming it protectively after himself as he did. Feeling for the door lock, he snapped it forcefully into the locked position.

“Home.” He croaked at his driver. “Take me home.” On the street, Lestrade looked stunned. He made a frustrated gesture, his hands falling and slapping against his thighs.

“Is everything alright, Mr Holmes?” Carl, his driver, asked without inflection as he pulled smoothly away from the curb. The man had been with Mycroft for almost a decade, and could count on two fingers the number of times Mycroft had flagged him with such urgency.

“Everything is fine.” Mycroft told him tightly, trying to control his breathing — Lestrade was right, he would hyperventilate if he didn’t soon. “Just take me home.” He closed the privacy screen then checked to make certain the doors were locked. He knew he had locked them, but he felt so exposed still. He forced himself to take a deep breath. _You’re safe now_. Mycroft tried to believe it.

He rested his head on the seat back, closing his eyes, counting out inhales and exhales. He was clammy with relief, his racing heartbeat just starting to slow. What had just happened? Mycroft hardly knew. 

No, that wasn’t true. Mycroft knew — It was one of his rare panic attacks. He thought he’d outgrown them.

He’d had the first one at University. One moment Mycroft had been playing chess with Roger, a dear friend who had always been able to make Mycroft laugh — and the next Mycroft was pelting towards his own rooms, sweaty and cold, his heart beating a stuttering tattoo. He’d locked himself in and curled up on his bed in a tight ball. He’d slept late the next morning, not even hearing his alarm and almost missing his first class. Roger had accepted his apology, but the thought of spending time alone with him again made Mycroft uncomfortable. He regretted the loss of the friendship.

It happened twice more whilst he was at school, always unexpectedly — the second time at a party when he’d had a little too much to drink and the third time on holiday in Greece when he’d gone swimming in the moonlight with a another young man.

Mycroft concluded that it was some sort of social anxiety. By then, he already had his sights on government service and needed to avoid damaging rumours about panic attacks at all costs. To that end, Mycroft had limited his social interactions to family and official functions.

He hadn’t had another episode for seven years. Mycroft remembered very little about what had caused it — only that he’d been with a small group of colleagues at a conference in Zurich — but it drove him to seek out a very discreet private specialist. 

Dr Meisen practiced in Vienna — near where Dr Freud had his offices almost a century earlier. Mycroft had an affinity for languages, and had acquired fluency in German and Hungarian long before, thus it was a simple thing to have himself seconded to Budapest, an easy train ride from Vienna and Dr Meisen.

The doctor reviewed Mycroft’s medical records — his annual examination had shown no underlying physical problems — then proceeded to question Mycroft about the episodes, about his childhood, about Mummy and Father and his relationship with Sherlock. He asked about Mycroft’s sexual habits and partners, cocked an eyebrow when informed that he had had none and spent fifteen minutes ‘exploring’ Mycroft’s reasons for celibacy. At the end of the hour Dr Meisen recommended talk therapy and relaxation techniques such as yoga or meditation. 

“Herr Doctor, my profession is such that I can only engage in therapy with certain pre-approved individuals, who, if they even suspected I suffered from something as unpredictable as a panic disorder, would end my career.”

Dr Meisen looked at Mycroft thoughtfully. “Perhaps that would be best, no?”

“ _No_. I have never had an attack whilst working, no matter how great the pressure or importance. This is some sort of peculiar _social anxiety_. I’m unwilling to give up my career over it.”

The doctor had thought some more, gazing at Mycroft. “If you would consent to hypnosis...”

“No!” Mycroft said forcefully. “Absolutely not.” The non-disclosure documents he had signed on entering government service expressly forbade it.

Meisen nodded — he must have expected that reaction. “Then I’m afraid there’s very little that I can do for you, Herr Holmes. I’m sorry.”

Mycroft had despaired. “Surely there must be something.”

“I’ll give you a prescription for an anti-anxiety drug that you can take when you feel an episode coming on. Otherwise I recommend regular exercise and, as I said, relaxation.”

“That’s it?”

“You should try to avoid the triggers.”

Mycroft had left feeling supremely disappointed — and frustrated by the lack of answers. He followed the doctor’s recommendations, taking up running and t’ai chi. He had the prescription filled in Budapest under a false name and kept it in his medicine cabinet in an ibuprofen bottle, under a layer of ibuprofen capsules.

He had one more panic attack three years after seeing Dr Meisen. It was at a reception for the Argentine ambassador — thank goodness the attack had taken place in the back garden and Mycroft was able to flee the party without being seen. He’d taken one of the Xanax when he’d gotten home and it put him to sleep for fourteen hours. He told his superiors that his sudden, discreet exit had been due to the onset of food poisoning. “Bad clams.”

Afterwards, Mycroft avoided social situations even more stringently, spending almost all of his time working. He devoted his off-hours to the Diogenes or solitary pursuits at home, interrupting this routine only for an emergency with Sherlock or to play host to his parents. He’d been free of the panic attacks for over fifteen years. The Xanax had expired years ago and Mycroft had not replaced the prescription. It had been so long he had almost forgotten about the strange episodes.

What had brought it on now?

Mycroft’s phone alert sounded. Automatically he pulled it from his pocket and checked it. He had a text from Lestrade.

**from: DCI Gregory Lestrade 10:39 p.m.**  
_Mycroft, I’m sorry if I overstepped — clearly, I did, and I’m so sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was upset you — I really thought we were on the same page. I want to understand what happened, how I could have misunderstood so completely. Can we talk tomorrow? Meet for coffee maybe? I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself. :)_

Mycroft despaired.

—-

As Lestrade watched Mycroft’s car pull away, his primary emotion was confusion. 

He touched his jaw where Mycroft had hit him and winced. It was tender and beginning to swell — it would bruise. He probed the cut on his lip with his tongue, tasting the iron tang of blood.

 _What had just happened?_

That wasn’t the Mycroft Lestrade knew — the elegant, controlled, witty genius Lestrade loved had disappeared, leaving a red-faced, stuttering dervish in his place.

He had been police for a long time and seen a lot of shite — too much. Much too much. It gave him ideas about Mycroft that he did not want to entertain.

Lestrade turned and began to walk the way he and Mycroft had come — there’d been an Underground station a few blocks back. Good thing, he thought, he had his oyster card with him. He almost hadn’t picked it up, knowing Mycroft had his ubiquitous car for their date — or their not-date.. But habit and caution had won out, his fingers scooping it up with his wallet and keys.

The Iceman had lost his cool. Lestrade didn’t know much, but he knew that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that.

_It wasn’t a date! I’ve never been on a date in my life!_

Lestrade sorted through his feelings. His jaw ached and he felt a bit put-out. Put-upon. But honestly, he was more confused than hurt. Something was wrong, something he’d missed. 

Everything up until that point had been perfect… they’d been happy in each other’s company, enjoying the food and wine together. Whatever they talked about had seemed interesting — they could have talked about pork futures and Lestrade would have been rapt. And then there was the way Mycroft looked at him… Lestrade knew that Mycroft saw it all, saw his wrinkles and the extra pounds, his weaknesses and failings, his baggage — everything Lestrade was ashamed of, or too lazy to fix. Mycroft saw it, but he was happy to see Lestrade just the same. 

It had been going so well — right up until he’d kissed the tall bastard.

How had he misread the signals so badly? 

Before going into the Underground, Lestrade composed a text to Mycroft. He read it over thinking how lame it sounded. He liked the toffee-nosed git — a lot... he might even... well, no need to get ahead of himself. 

Lestrade gave it a fifty percent chance that Mycroft would respond to his text at all. 

He couldn’t ignore the man’s distress, his uncharacteristic reaction. Instead of heading home, he followed the signs to the Jubilee line and took it to Baker Street.

He found Sherlock at home, slouched in his chair, his hands steepled in front of his nose. “You’ve been with Mycroft again.” He said dismissively.

“How can you tell?” Lestrade asked from the doorway.

“You ironed your shirt.”

“I always iron me shirts.”

“You always iron your shirt _front_.” Sherlock told him. “Before you see Mycroft, you iron your collar and cuffs — and I assume the rest of it.” He glanced up quizzically. “I’m not sure why you bother.”

Lestrade shrugged and sat heavily on the couch. “He’s always so put together. Thought I should make an effort.”

Sherlock squinted at him. “Who hit you? Don’t tell me you had to defend Mycroft’s honour — he’s not the blushing maid he makes out to be.”

“Mycroft hit me.”

That piqued Sherlock’s interest — he sat up and gave Lestrade his full attention. “Why?”

“I don’t know why. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

“Me?” Sherlock retreated back into his slouch.

“You’re ‘is brother.”

“We’re not close.”

“Sure you are — he dotes on you.”

“He smothers me — he clucks around like an overprotective mother hen, butting in where he’s not wanted. He’s always been that way.”

Lestrade leaned forward. “Always?”

“My earliest memories are of Mycroft following me around, lecturing about poisonous plants I should avoid, the dangers of falling in the pond and to hold his hand and stay away from the lawnmower. He’s never yet stopped.”

“How old was ‘e when you were born?”

“Seven... eight?” Sherlock shrugged his eyebrows. “I don’t know what he did with himself all those years without me to wrap in cotton wool.” 

“Yeah, it’s all about you, Sherlock, innit.”

“Of course it’s about me. What else could it be about?”

Lestrade swallowed a sarcastic remark. Then reordered his thinking. “Maybe... maybe it _was_ about you... Sherlock... was there anyone that ‘e was... _particularly_ anxious about? Anyone ‘e didn’t like having around — wouldn’t let you alone when ‘e was there?”

Sherlock sat up again and regarded Lestrade stonily. “We didn’t entertain other children.”

“What about adults? Cousins, neighbours... family friends?”

Sherlock huffed softly and stood up. He hesitated a moment before turning his back on the Detective Inspector and busying himself rearranging the papers on the mantle. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Lestrade.” He muttered.

“Am I?”

“Mycroft was _born_ an officious, overbearing prat.”

“Hmm.” Lestrade patted his lips with his fingers, thinking. “What about relationships — girlfriends? Boyfriends?”

“Not my area.” Sherlock said dismissively.

“But you would know if he were seeing someone. Has ‘e had relationships?”

Sherlock swung around and stalked to the couch, his eyes flicking over Lestrade, head to toe, searching. “Why did Mycroft hit you?” He demanded.

“You first.” Lestrade said evenly. “Has ‘e had a boyfriend?”

Sherlock made a face and flopped ungainly on the couch. “Boring. If I ever knew, I deleted it.” He examined his fingernails.

“No, you didn’t. Tell me, has Mycroft ever had someone? Has ‘e dated?”

“Mycroft thinks _I’m_ slow. He’s too smart for regular people. A relationship... it would be like keeping a goldfish.”

“A goldfish?" Lestrade asked sceptically. "He never tried it? Never went out with someone?”

“Why would he?”

“OK.” Lestrade’s eyes turned inward under his beetled brow. Eventually he focussed on Sherlock again, took in his expectant expression. “I kissed ‘im.” He admitted. “An’ ‘e hit me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What did you expect from The Iceman?”

“It wasn’t like ‘at. ‘E was wild... terrified...” Lestrade touched the cut on his lip. “More uva flailing backhand than a punch. ’M worried about ‘im.”

“Your estuary is showing.” Sherlock sneered.

“Pardon me, yer royal poshness.”

Sherlock scoffed and heaved himself off the couch. “Come back when you have an interesting murder.” He said, disappearing into the kitchen.

As he made his way home, Lestrade turned the information over in his mind. It fit, he decided — Mycroft’s need for control, his overprotectiveness, even referring to his suits as his armour, the lack of lasting relationships, or any relationships at all. It fit and it left Lestrade feeling sad and furious and completely helpless.

He wished he could interview Mycroft’s parents — and his teachers, tutors, nannies — anyone who had been involved in Mycroft’s life growing up.

At home, feeling exhausted but very far from sleep, he put Gang of Four on his headphones and lay down on the couch to brood. 

The kiss... he had wanted to snog Mycroft for quite a long time. Snog him and unwrap all the posh trappings, discover the man inside... But Mycroft’s reserve was monumental, Lestrade had not been sure they’d ever get there.

But tonight! Mycroft had been warm and open. He had not retreated behind his prim walls. He’d smiled and laughed and touched Lestrade’s arm as he spoke. He had called him ‘Gregory,’ not ‘Detective Inspector’ or ‘DCI Lestrade,’ and Lestrade thought that had meant that Mycroft wanted him too.

After dinner they had walked, the air full of their potential. Mycroft had shyly brushed Lestrade’s hand. Lestrade had bumped Mycroft’s shoulder, two men walking much too close to be anything but lovers.

The doorway was sheltered, the sidewalk empty. Lestrade had taken Mycroft’s hand and tugged him gently into the privacy of the shadows. 

The first kiss had been the barest of touches, lips brushing softly against lips. So sweet. Mycroft had sighed softly and Lestrade thought, _’At last! At last it is happening!’_

He had cupped Mycroft’s dear face and kissed him again, more deeply, stepping him back to lean in the doorway... the excitement! The heady, happy arousal...

_What are you doing?_

The question was urgent, intense. Lestrade felt the same, all intense heat and urgent desire. He failed to register the fear in the words. He had leaned into Mycroft for another kiss...

Lestrade checked his phone. He had not received a reply to his text.

—

Mycroft woke feeling muzzy — he had slept late, almost to half nine, and had only woke then because Anthea had rung him — and sleep clung to him as he struggled to get ready for the day. His eyes were gummy, his limbs heavy and his brain unaccountably foggy. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. He put a zinc lozenge on his tongue, just in case, grimacing at the foul taste.

It wasn’t until he checked his phone and saw the text from Detective Inspector Lestrade that he remembered the panic attack the night before. It stopped his forward progress entirely. He sat upon his unmade bed for several minutes, lost in thought.

Why now?! After all these years! And why when he was with the Detective Inspector? He trusted the man implicitly — he’d trusted him with Sherlock for a decade — he respected his work ethic and professional rigor. 

More than that, Mycroft had grown to enjoy Lestrade’s company, to look forward to the time they spent together. Lestrade was one of the rare individuals with whom Mycroft felt... comfortable.

“Stupid! Stupid!” He chastised himself. He had allowed himself to form a social connection — it had snuck up on him, happening bit by bit. He had been meeting with Lestrade monthly for almost a decade. At first because Sherlock was using and wouldn’t see Mycroft — Lestrade kept an eye out, tried to keep him from getting into trouble. It had been Lestrade who called Mycroft from hospital when Sherlock overdosed, Lestrade who had offered the carrot enticing enough to keep Sherlock sober, Lestrade who had suffered professional damage for his association with Sherlock. He had never told either brother about the setbacks — Mycroft learned of it through other means — and had never held it against Sherlock.

But lately, Mycroft had to admit, he’d been seeing Lestrade more often — every week at least. This week alone, they’d met for coffee twice and then dinner last night. They texted every day. 

Ostensibly they still met to discuss Sherlock, but they spoke of him less and less. No, Mycroft had come to cherish simply spending time with the level-headed policeman. He liked Lestrade’s easy laughter, his complete lack of pretension and agenda, his open nature and positive outlook — an excellent foil for Mycroft’s own less than kind opinions — he liked listening to Lestrade’s anecdotes, his ruminations, and Mycroft appreciated how well he listened when Mycroft expressed his own. He could not deny it, he enjoyed spending time with Lestrade. 

He was very fond of Detective Inspector Lestrade. Very fond.

Mycroft found he could not bear the idea of cutting off contact with the Detective Inspector. But he could not risk another episode.

Why did this have to happen now? 

Abruptly, he was _furious_ with Lestrade. How dare he! How dare he compromise Mycroft! How dare Lestrade take advantage of Mycroft’s good will! The Detective Inspector clearly wanted something from him —Mycroft’s influence? Did he think he could advance his career by cosying up... did he think he could sleep his way into a promotion?! Where did the man’s ambition end!? Superintendent? Chief Superintendent! Commander?! _Commissioner_?!

Well! Lestrade would be sadly disappointed! 

Not that Mycroft couldn’t do it. Nothing could be simpler! Without effort, Mycroft could chart the path of promotions — a word in the right ear at one or two strategic points... Lestrade could be Police Commissioner in ten years! Twelve tops. He’d only be sixty then, he could reign for two decades!

...but...

...Lestrade had resisted the promotion to DCI for years. He’d taken it only grudgingly three years ago after a less-than-stellar physical — a side-effect, no doubt, of the gruelling and prolonged divorce. He’d needed the extra income to get back on his feet, to afford the modest flat he’d taken — a dim, claustrophobic three rooms chosen more for its location near central London than any feature or luxury.

Surely... surely Lestrade wasn’t after... _money_. 

Mycroft tried to imagine it, Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade romancing _anyone_ for a bigger flat and a few indulgences.

He couldn’t. 

Mycroft tried to imagine Lestrade in his big, bright flat on Pall Mall, moving his cheap suits and tatty record albums into Mycroft’s guest room, puttering around Mycroft’s gourmet kitchen making _spagh bowl_ or _bangers and oven chips_ , laying on Mycroft’s antique divan with a greasy bag of crisps, snoring in Mycroft’s bed, stealing the duvet... being there when Mycroft woke in the morning, cheerful and accommodating... making tea and calling him ‘sunshine’... his lovely tan skin completely bare in Mycroft’s shower... being able to let his eyes range over broad shoulders and strong back, tight bum... being allowed to touch...

...Lestrade wrapping his strong limbs around Mycroft, pressing him down, pinning him, breath hot on Mycroft’s shoulder, erection demanding and intrusive...

Panic swirled nastily in Mycroft’s stomach, threatening to rise and take over! He banished the thoughts quickly, tucking them deeply into his subconscious, panting and flushed...

What was wrong with him!? 

Mycroft had _longed_ for Lestrade to kiss him — he’d been desperate for it, desperate for his friend to touch him with his big, gentle hands... and when he had, when Lestrade had caressed Mycroft’s jaw, when his lips had slid over Mycroft’s own, he had melted with desire.

The first kiss had been a revelation. The second made his entire body buzz with electricity. The third...

The third had birthed the panic, made it _imperative_ that Mycroft escape, that he run and hide himself away...

Mycroft was not capable of having a physical relationship. Mycroft could not bear the touch of the man for whom he cared and after whom he lusted. The man who clearly cared about him, wanted him against all odds!

Mycroft was stunted... twisted deep inside... 

He mourned. Mycroft had not allowed himself to want — or even to hope — for so long. All his attempts ended the same way, in a frenzy of alarm and terror...

Oh but he wanted it, what Lestrade offered! He wanted companionship, friendship... love. He wanted Lestrade’s strong hands roaming freely all over his body! He wanted to welcome them everywhere.  
Why couldn’t he?

Mycroft had to face the hard truth, he would never have a lover. He was middle aged now, had lived his entire life without, he had to accept that it would never be possible.

He could only try to be a friend to Lestrade. He had been vastly unfair to the man, attempting to blame the policeman for his own failings, accusing him of ambition and avarice that he simply did not possess. 

Mycroft was broken inside, but he thought, he hoped, he could manage a friendship — if the Detective Inspector would allow it.

He read Lestrade’s text again... Mycroft decided: he would meet with him today as Lestrade suggested. If he had another attack, he would take the necessary steps to protect himself. He would cut himself off for ever.

—-

Rush hour was over, but the carriage was still standing room only. It was close, the heat of so many bodies building until it was suffocating. Lestrade was keyed up enough, he couldn’t stand it — he disembarked a few stops early, at Hyde Park Corner, and walked through Green Park towards Pall Mall. The cool of the evening dried the sweat that itched under his arms and on the small of his back. Why had he bothered going home to freshen up and change?

He opened his phone and read Mycroft’s text again.

**from: Mycroft Holmes 11:03 a.m.**  
_I rather think I owe you an apology, not the other way around. Your friendship is important to me, Gregory, thus I agree that a discussion of the incident is merited — but not where prying ears might hear. If you would be so good as to come to my abode this evening, I can ensure our privacy. Would 8 p.m. suit?_

The idea that Mycroft still trusted him enough to invite him into his home meant a lot to Lestrade. It made him feel less like a pillaging ogre.

At 8 p.m. on the dot, Lestrade was at the front door of Mycroft’s building. A doorman let him into the lobby and called up to Mycroft for permission to send him up. Receiving it, he put Lestrade on the lift and unlocked Mycroft’s floor with a special key. When the lift door opened, Lestrade found himself facing a burly man in a suit who enquired politely for identification. 

Lestrade showed the man his warrant card and driving license — they were studied and photographed while another agent ran a metal detecting wand over him. He emptied the change from his pockets, took off his watch and surrendered his pen and smartphone before he passed the metal detector and was allowed to step up to Mycroft’s door. 

The first agent returned Lestrade’s ID. “Sir, we’ll have to keep hold of your phone. You can collect it on your way out.”

“Yeah, sure.” Lestrade said, watching the man zip it into a pouch and stow it in a strong box. 

The second guard thumbed an intercom and informed Mycroft that his guest had arrived. The door buzzed and the agent opened it for Lestrade. “Enjoy your evening, DCI Lestrade.” He murmured as he stepped aside for the Detective Inspector to enter.

“Gregory, please come in. Sorry about all that nonsense — never can be too careful. Tea? I’ve just brewed a fresh pot.” Mycroft was tieless in his shirtsleeves, the top buttons of both his shirt and waistcoat undone, and his cuffs folded back to reveal forearms covered in ginger fur. Lestrade couldn’t have been more surprised had he come in to find Mycroft naked.

He looked lovely, long and lean and lusciously informal.

Lestrade was glad he’d opted for casual chinos and a navy jumper rather than the suit he’d worn to work.

Mycroft seemed to drink in the sight of him.

“Never mind about the security — I should’ve expected it. Tea’s great.” Lestrade told him. “Thanks. I brought these, but your guys out there had a pretty good sniff at ‘em.” He held up the tin of ginger shortbread biscuits he’d brought.

“How thoughtful. Thank you.” Mycroft said, leading Lestrade into the bright kitchen. For a few moments they were busy with teacups, milk and sugar. The tin of biscuits was opened and Mycroft put several on a plate. “Can you carry these into the lounge?” He asked, turning to hand it to Lestrade. 

“Sure.”

“Good Lord, did I do that?” Mycroft exclaimed, his eyes widening. He leaned close, the plate of biscuits between them, and touched the bruise on Lestrade’s jaw, a feather touch. Lestrade stood completely still, wanting the other man’s touch but fearing to frighten him.

“It’s nuffin’.” Lestrade pulled gently away from the fingertips ghosting over his skin. He took the China plate from Mycroft’s hand.

“It’s not nothing.”

Lestrade shrugged, a self-deprecating smile in his eyes. “Had worse. Me own fault, yeah?” 

“No, not your fault... Gregory.” Mycroft said softly. “You didn’t misunderstand.”

“Oh... but...?”

Mycroft pasted a smile onto his face — the smile Lestrade had learned meant Mycroft was uncomfortable. “Perhaps we should sit down.” He said and gestured to the pass-through to the lounge.

The room was large and comfortable, a tasteful mix of antiques and modern furniture in rich blues and greens. It was not at all what Lestrade had expected, but as Mycroft settled in a wing chair, he saw how perfectly he fit in the setting. He could not help but compare it to his own tiny lounge with its mismatched furniture...

He chose the sofa for himself, sitting on the end closest to Mycroft, placing his tea and the plate of shortbread on the mahogany coffee table. 

“So...” He said. “I didn’t misunderstand?”

Mycroft took a sip of his tea then set his cup down. He carefully adjusted its placement on the coffee table. “No, you did not. I was... not unhappy... that you kissed me. Upon reflection, I realise I had been encouraging just such intimacy between us.”

Thank God! He wasn’t crazy! The signals had been there and he hadn’t misread them. “Upon reflection?” He asked gently.

Mycroft adjusted his teacup again. “I am not... experienced, Detective Inspector...”

“Greg, please. Or at least ‘Gregory.’”

“...Gregory.” Mycroft glanced up shyly. “I have little practical experience, but I find I care about you quite... quite a lot actually.”

“I care about you too.”

“You do?”

“Very much, Mycroft.” Lestrade said. “You’re my closest friend.”

“As you are mine.” Mycroft told him.

“And I kissed you because I hope we can be more than friends.”

“Oh.” Mycroft looked away. “I’m not sure that I can.”

“Ah… but you said you’d encouraged me...” Lestrade broke off, feeling stupid. “Right. You tried it on, you didn’t like it.”

“No, Gregory, please don’t think this is because I don’t care for you. It’s me, not you.”

Lestrade chuckled wishing he didn’t sound so bitter. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Don’t worry, My, I get it.” He rubbed his thighs briefly then stood up. “Prob’ly less awkward if I just go.”

Mycroft sprang up. “Wait, please. You misunderstand — entirely my fault, I’m not expressing myself well.”

Lestrade hesitated, taking in Mycroft’s tension and sincerity. “OK.” He eased himself back onto the couch.

Mycroft paced the length of the fireplace and back, his face shuttered in thought. “Gregory…” He said at last. “I wish we could be together — I want to be with you. You’re relatively good company and you’re not entirely stupid and —”

“Ta very much.”

“— you’re kind and humorous and I trust you more than anyone else of my acquaintance.” Mycroft sighed. “The more time we spend together, the more obvious it becomes that I have romantic feelings for you. I think about you, your body…” Mycroft flushed red and began to pace again. “I wanted you to kiss me, Gregory — I wanted to kiss you. I still do. If I could, I would kiss you right now.”

“If you could?”

“I… I don’t want to hurt you again.” Mycroft said sadly. “One bruise is far too many.”

“You think you’ll have the same reaction now? Even if you’re prepared?”

“I…I think so. Yes.” Mycroft stepped away from him, nervous as a colt. “I cannot control it.”

Time to get to the heart of it, Lestrade thought, dreading the conversation to come. “Tell me what it is, My. Tell me what happened last night.” He prodded gently.

“Last night...” Mycroft looked wistful. “I have not found myself on the receiving end of a kiss in many, many years. Unfortunately, my reaction was much the same then.”

“You hit him too?”

“I don’t exactly recall.” Mycroft admitted. “Just that I had a panic attack and left him in a rush.”

Lestrade nodded. “It was a panic attack yesterday, wasn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“Was that the first one, with the other fellow?”

“No.” Mycroft said softly. “It has happened every time I’ve... I’ve gotten close to someone.” Lestrade watched as Mycroft shrank in on himself. “It seems I can only go so far and no further. I’m so sorry, Gregory.”

Lestrade ignored the apology. “Is that the only time you’ve had panic attacks? Never at work?

“No never!”

“Only when you kiss someone?”

Mycroft scoffed. “I have never initiated intimacy.”

“Ok. When he — or she...?”

“You know I’m homosexual.”

“You might have experimented.”

Mycroft’s laugh was harsh. “No.”

“OK, so you have only had these panic attacks when a man has kissed you. And it’s happened _every_ time?”

“Yes.”

“That’s rough. Have you ever told anyone?” Lestrade asked. “A doctor?”

“Yes. When I was younger, I sought out a specialist — discreetly, of course. I’m afraid there was very little he could do. He encouraged me to avoid the triggers... so I have.”

“Triggers... you mean you’ve avoided getting close to anybody.”

“Yes.” The word was so soft, barely a whisper in the air. 

“Oh, Mycroft —” Lestrade leaned forward wanting to comfort his dear friend. He reached out, then reconsidered. His hand hung in the air for a moment until he pulled it back onto his lap with a frustrated huff.

“I’m afraid I’m simply incapable of intimacy.” Lestrade heard the naked pain in the statement. “I’m sorry, Gregory. I wish it could be otherwise. I hope...” Mycroft faltered, but collected himself quickly. “I hope we can remain friends.”

“This doesn’t change how I feel about you. Did you think it would?”

“My experience is that... after an incident... the friendship is irreparable.” Mycroft scoffed softly. “I must take at least some of the blame for that. I do not find the episodes... easy.”

“No, it was frightening for me. I can only imagine it was much, much worse for you.” Mycroft gave a tight, miserable nod. “Have you ever explored _why_ you react that way?”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “I... I just do.”

Lestrade shook his head. “No. There’s a reason, Mycroft.” He paused, girding himself for what he intended to say next. “Have you considered that it might be a rational, protective response to something that happened to you when you were young?”

Mycroft processed the statement. His posture changed, straightened, as he comprehended the import. He shook his head firmly. “Nothing _happened to me_ when I was young.” He didn’t quite snap, but the tension was there.

“You may not remember. It’s a survival instinct, the mind represses what is too difficult to remember... too horrible.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I had an idyllic childhood.”

“And yet.”

Mycroft paced restlessly towards the window. “If anything had happened, I would _know_. I would remember. Nothing happened.”

“Ok. But if something did — when you were very young, unable to defend yourself — it might explain a number of things.”

“Such as?!”

“Panic attacks. Anxiety. A need for control. Disordered eating. An inability to form or keep close relationships, compulsive behaviour, nightmares...” Mycroft made an impatient sound. “Do you think it’s coincidental that you have panic attacks whenever a man holds you, kisses you? And only then?”

“I think you should leave, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft snarled.

“It would explain how protective you’ve always been of Sherlock — ensuring that he wasn’t victimised by the same person. Or...”

“ _I! Was! Not! Victimised!_ ” Mycroft shouted.

Lestrade didn’t shrink from Mycroft’s rage, but he didn’t challenge it. He let the moment pass, hoping to de-escalate. Before he could speak, there was a knock at the door and the intercom squawked. “Mr Holmes? Is everything OK?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Mycroft stalked through to the front hall and flung open the door. “Everything is _fine_ , agent. Thank you for ensuring my safety. Now please, allow me to speak with the Detective Inspector in peace.”

“Yes sir. I’m sorry, sir.” Mycroft closed the door, checking it from slamming at the last second.

“I’ll leave if you want me to.” Lestrade said. “But think about it, yeah?”

“Whether you’re right or wrong — and you’re wrong — why would I want to dwell upon it?”

“Because maybe if you can work out _why_ you have the panic attacks, you won’t have them anymore.”

“Nothing is that simple.”

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy. But if it gives us a chance...?”

All the animation drained from Mycroft’s face and he dropped limply into a chair by the fireplace. “I don’t know, Gregory. I can see the logic... but everything within me screams against it.”

“How can I help?” Lestrade asked, moving towards him. “I want to help.”

Mycroft shook his head, seeming more defeated than Lestrade had ever seen him. “I don’t know.” 

“Maybe... hypnosis...”

Mycroft’s head snapped up. “No! Absolutely not.”

“But...?”

“Hush!” Mycroft hissed. He stood up and walked briskly to a cabinet and pulled out something the size and shape of a small bowl. He brought it to where Lestrade stood and twisted something on its bottom and it began emitting white noise — it would foil any potential listening devices.

“Mycroft...”

“Hypnosis!? You cannot be serious. I am the British Government, I can’t babble the country’s secrets to some quack!”

“Limit the scope to the panic attacks, to your childhood.” Lestrade argued. “I saw a doc when I was trying to quit smoking, she wasn’t a quack — and it worked, My. If you do have repressed memories...”

“You don’t understand, I _cannot risk it_.” Mycroft lowered his voice to a mere whisper and spoke directly into Lestrade’s ear. “Even the slightest chance that a foreign agent could install a hypnotic suggestion... I am Britain’s sin eater, Gregory. I am the custodian of all our most confidential secrets, our worst secrets —secrets that could end Britain.”

“You’re...” Lestrade’s head swam in confusion. “Doesn’t the PM...”

Mycroft shook his head. “I know so the PM doesn’t have to know. They should not have to carry so heavy a burden when they leave office, whilst I provide continuity as governments rise and fall.” He laid a comforting hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. “There is no paper trail for the things I know, no evidence. They are given to me and then they are destroyed.”

“Why keep them at all?”

“Sometimes they’re needed. I have them here.” Mycroft tapped the side of his head. “I have everything.”

“That’s... wow.”

“I should not have told you.”

Lestrade squared his shoulders. “You trust me.”

“Yes, God help me, I do.” He looked Lestrade directly in the eye. “You must never tell anyone.”

“No... no, I won’t.”

“I have told you this, Gregory, so you know I am not dismissing you lightly. I literally _cannot_ be compromised.”

Their faces were close — Lestrade would barely have to move and he could nuzzle into the curve of Mycroft’s lovely neck. “I understand.” Lestrade told him. “No hypnosis... what about a regular psychotherapist?”

Mycroft sighed. “There are several on staff that I could see. Nothing I say would be confidential — my superiors would have full access.”

“You don’t like the idea of that. I don’t blame you.” Lestrade said. “But you can’t martyr yourself for Queen and country. You deserve to be happy.”

“I’m afraid that my happiness is not a consideration.”

“It’s a consideration for me!”

With misty eyes, Mycroft smiled at him. “Would that were enough.” He patted Lestrade’s arm and turned off the white noise. He sank down into a chair by the fireplace, head bowed.

Lestrade wanted to hug him, to hold him and tell him they’d work it out. But he feared that would only make matters worse. Carefully, he sat down on the floor, beside Mycroft’s chair, and leaned against it, his hand curling loosely around the other man’s ankle. After a tense hesitation, Mycroft slowly relaxed. He touched Lestrade’s hair softly. “Is this… can I…?”

“That’s nice. I like it.” Lestrade sighed, allowing his cheek to rest against Mycroft’s knee.

The long, slim fingers in his hair felt divine. After a while they strayed onto the nape of his neck, caressing, then back up to comb through his silver locks. He could feel Mycroft’s avid interest, his desire to explore — he stayed still and let the other man go at his own pace, sighing now and again to show how much he enjoyed the touch. They sat there, in front of the cold fireplace, hand petting steel grey hair, long enough that Lestrade started to nod off.

He jerked awake, raising his head suddenly. Mycroft’s hand retreated from his hair and did not return. “Hey, sorry… just dozing off… actually me leg’s asleep.” He shifted position, drawing the tingling limb out in front of him and rubbing it. “It’s getting late, I guess.”

“Ah. I should not have kept you so long. It was selfish of me.”

“I think you deserve to be a little selfish right now.”

Mycroft tutted, rising to his feet nervously.

“I’m serious. You’ve gone without much too long. Here, help me up.” Lestrade extended his hand and Mycroft took it, pulling him to his feet. They were close. Lestrade felt Mycroft’s tremble as a tiny disturbance in the air. “Listen… maybe if I keep me hands to myself…” He shoved them in his pockets. “And close me eyes, you can have your way with me.” 

“Gregory…” 

“No, I’m serious. Maybe if you’re the one in charge? Worth a try, yeah.”

“I’d just hurt you again.”

“If you start to feel panicked, you can walk away. My hands are in me pockets, I’m not stopping you.”

He could see that Mycroft was tempted, very tempted. “Go ahead.” Lestrade told him. “It’s OK.” He let his eyes fall closed.

After a long, tense moment, tentative fingertips ghosted along his jaw, feeling the rasp of Lestrade’s five o’clock shadow. They travelled to his ear, down his neck to his collarbone and back up.

Warm hands caressed his neck, slowly growing bolder. One slim hand pet across Lestrade’s shoulder and down to wander haltingly over his chest. The other stayed near his jaw, touching his chin and his cheekbone, tickling his ear and stroking up and down his nape.

When Lestrade felt the first warm puff of breath on his skin, he struggled to remain passive — his instinct was to lean into Mycroft’s touch, to snake his fingers into the narrow area under his waistcoat but above his belt. Lestrade loved that slender strip of tender flesh. But he restrained himself, focussing on the sensations of Mycroft’s hands moving over his body. 

He gasped softly when lips pressed against his cheek. Tiny kisses were placed on his jaw and neck to his ear — where Lestrade had to cringe and pull away. “Ticklish. Sorry.” He said, stilling himself. “Go on.”

It was a moment before the hands settled again, before he felt breath on his skin. The kiss when it came was sweet and gently testing. Lestrade allowed himself to return the kiss, but not to deepen it. It was more difficult than he’d expected — he wanted to pull Mycroft close, cradle him in his arms, breathe in the vetiver of his cologne, the hint of almond from his pomade, the musky, masculine scent of Mycroft’s nervous perspiration...

Lestrade didn’t move, didn’t pull his hands from his pockets. Mycroft wrapped his arms around his shoulders and buried his face against Lestrade’s neck.

“Put your arms around me.” Mycroft murmured.

Lestrade was happy to comply. He moved slowly, letting his hands coast across Mycroft’s sides around to his back. He held the other man chastely, rubbing a calming circle over his spine. 

Mycroft moved to kiss him again, their mouths meeting, breath ragged. Mycroft probed gently with his tongue and Lestrade opened, let him explore. It felt so good! He increased the pressure of his arms, hugging Mycroft close, loving the feeling of the other man pressed against him from chest to knee. 

Abruptly, Mycroft pushed against him. Lestrade released him immediately, stepping back, giving him room, beating back his own frustration. Mycroft scrambled away, panting for breath. “What do we do?” He cried, his voice broken. 

“Oh love…” It took everything Lestrade had to stay where he was, not rush to Mycroft’s side.

Mycroft hunched over the edge of the couch, the line of his back rigid, gulping air. Gradually his breathing evened out and he stood up straight. His eyes were red and wet and full of pain, but he blinked the tears away.

“Apologies. This was a mistake.” Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s face closed, his expression blanking, his eyes going chill and dead — suddenly he looked like the man who had unsubtly threatened Lestrade a decade ago. “I fear I’ve been making a fool of myself this evening.”

Lestrade felt cold inside. “Don’t… My, don’t do that. Don’t go away.”

“I don’t know what you mean Detective Inspector.”

“Please. Mycroft.”

Mycroft, ignored his plea, busying himself tidying their cups of cold tea into his hands and carrying them into the kitchen. Lestrade picked up the plate of biscuits and followed. Mycroft poured the tea down the sink and began rinsing the cups.

“Can I help you with that?” Lestrade asked.

“There’s no need.”

Lestrade bowed his head — he didn’t want this to end, not now that they’d declared themselves. “You’re giving up.”

“I’m protecting myself from professional ruin, Detective Inspector. I’m restoring protocols that never should have been relaxed.”

“Protocols you never should have needed in the first place!”

“I’m afraid that’s moot.”

“Fuck!” Lestrade said, much more loudly than he’d intended. “Sorry… are we still friends, at least? He asked, defeated.

“Of course. Though I think we should go back to meeting at the Diogenes each month. Sherlock is doing so much better these days, thanks, in no small part to you. I am in your debt.”

“Goddammit, Mycroft! Stop it! Don’t shut me out!” 

Mycroft finished with the cups and stood awkwardly in the centre of the kitchen. On his face, Lestrade saw a shadow of the struggle that must be raging inside him. He reached out and brushed his fingers against the other man’s, tangling them loosely, allowing Mycroft to choose to hold or release his hand.

“Please.” Lestrade said. “We’re still friends. I don’t need all the rest, but don’t leave me with nothing.” Mycroft couldn’t leave him too!

Mycroft took a deep breath and released it slowly, then another. “I need some time. I have a lot to think about.”

“A lot. Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, OK. Just… just don’t treat me like the others. Don’t write me off because you’re scared.” Lestrade waited for a reply… but received none. Sadly, he disengaged his fingers and Mycroft let his hand go. “Keep in touch, yeah? Text or call… anytime. I’m here for you.”

He walked away from the silent figure into the hall and left the flat. The burly guards, sprang from their chairs, surprised by his sudden exit. Silently, one retrieved Lestrade’s phone and handed it to him, the other called the lift and keyed it for the lobby. Lestrade stepped inside and the doors closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really seem to be capable of writing short pieces — these are averaging 7,000+ words and I could go on and on and on. This one, I intended to have a hopeful, if not outright happy, ending, but sometimes I write myself into a corner and it just makes more sense to stay there.
> 
> Honestly, I don't even like to read fics that are fewer than 20,000 words... why am I trying to write them? Perhaps an outlet for the ton of ideas floating around in my head, some half written down, others just floating. I dunno.
> 
> Anyway, if you liked it, let me know. If you didn't... well, there's always the next chapter to look forward to. I think it's going to be an AU where newly-minted spy Mycroft sees Greg's band.


	4. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has suspicions.

The shower had begun leaking — subtly leaking. So subtly that neither Greg nor Mycroft had noticed until the dining room ceiling crumbled and fell onto the dining room table.

“I called Tim.” Greg told him as they cleaned wet plaster from the teak dining set. Mycroft’s Great Grand Uncle had brought it from India in 1893. Over the years the wood had darkened until it was almost black. The lacquer would have to be restored.

“Remind me who Tim is.” Mycroft muttered, preoccupied.

“Bloke who replaced the kitchen tile last summer.” Greg said, scooping handfuls of plaster into a bin bag. “We met his husband that one time — he’s does something in the Exchequer’s office...”

Mycroft straightened up like a Mir Cat, eyes bright — Gregory got on with Tim the builder a bit _too_ well for Mycroft’s liking. “Gavin Hind is chief aide to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

“So, yeah. Something.” Greg said with a smirk. “Lucky bloke, marrying a builder.” He mused. “Bet all their doors latch.” Mycroft was eternally irritated that neither the door on his study nor the door to the master en suite would stay closed. Matthew, Greg’s big tabby, only had to nose either door and it would yield. Mycroft didn’t mind the company in his study — Matthew had the highest clearances after all — but he preferred privacy in the loo.

“Mm.” Mycroft agreed.

“Tim’ll be by this evening to take a look at the damage and write up an estimate.” Greg sighed and ran a plaster-dusted hand through his silver hair. “Should give us a handle on how long we’ll be havin’ to wash in the guest loo.”

Mycroft groaned. He’d been so distracted by the injury to Great Grand Uncle Sherrincroft’s teak dining table, he hadn’t considered the impediments to hygiene this disaster entailed. Matthew’s litter pan was in the linen closet in the guest loo…

“Bugger!” Mycroft snapped, frustration boiling up within him. “This bloody hovel!” He slammed the handful of mouldy plaster mud he’d scooped off the table into the bin bag and it overbalanced and spilled onto the carpet. “Oh, for God’s sake!” 

“Mycroft…”

“Not now, Gregory, please!” He snarled as he stalked off. Greg didn’t reply, but Mycroft saw the tension in his jaw as he swept past. Regret rushed in, damping down his anger. “Apologies. I did not mean to take my annoyance out on you.”

Greg’s face relaxed and his eyes sought out Mycroft’s. “No worries, love.”

They finished tidying up the mess together, Mycroft washing down the table whilst Greg hauled bags of debris out to the bins. Mycroft hoovered the carpet, noting that they’d have to have it steam cleaned.

Afterward, he retreated down the hall to his study and shut the door harder than was strictly necessary. It bounced back open, refusing to latch. Mycroft stopped himself from smashing the bloody thing to splinters.

Hours later, Mycroft heard the front door. He’d settled down to work not long after throwing the tantrum, burying himself in reports from his operatives in Russia and Ukraine. He’d been dictating instructions to be passed along when he heard Greg’s voice. 

“Tim! Hey. Thanks for making time for us this evening. Come in.” 

“No problem, Greg.” The builder’s voice was warm. “Happy to help a mate.”

Greg chuckled. “I’m shouting pints next time.”

 _Next time?_ Mycroft frowned — that suggested Gregory had met with this man socially…

“Oh, bloody hell, Greg!” 

Greg’s sigh was ragged. “It’s a mess. I’m worried about the mould — I hope it hasn’t spread.”

“Ugh… nothing worse than toxic mould…”

Mycroft crept out of his study and down the hall to the dining room, planning to join the conversation.

“Heya, Greg? You holding up?”

“Yeah... you know...”

Mycroft arrived at the doorway and the sight that greeted him plucked all thought and intent from his mind. Tim had his hand on the back of Gregory’s neck and was looking at him with clear affection. As Mycroft watched, Tim pulled Gregory towards him, pressing his face into the crown of silver hair. Mycroft knew exactly what he was smelling — almond scented hair creme, soap and a hint of vetiver from the aftershave that Greg favored... 

Greg leaned against Tim's chest, his hand wavering then wrapping around the builder’s waist. 

In that instant, Mycroft knew that Gregory would leave him. Perhaps not directly, not tonight, but it was inescapable. The sense of loss was overwhelming, the pain as his heart was ripped from his chest left him breathless. 

He had known, of course, from their very first kiss, that Gregory would leave him one day. He had hoped — he had _intended_ — to handle the rupture with grace and dignity, bowing to the inevitable whilst cherishing the time they had had together. But now that it was here, now that he was confronted with the bitter, bitter reality of what losing his Gregory meant... Mycroft discovered that he would trade every last iota of his dignity if Gregory would stay...

Mycroft cleared his throat.

Both men looked up, stepping apart. Gregory turned towards Mycroft with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His cheeks were flushed — embarrassed or aroused? Mycroft didn't know — both were damning. Tim turned away, pretending to examine the mess whilst he recovered his composure.

“We might have toxic mould.” Greg told him. 

“I heard.” Mycroft said. “Tim, thank you for taking time out of your evening for our little situation.” He put a proprietary hand on Gregory’s back.

“Mycroft.” Tim acknowledged him with a modicum of the warmth he’d had for Greg. “It’s quite a situation you have here.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft said pointedly.

“It’s hard to tell — all I can smell now is plaster. If you start noticing a musty odour or stains, or if you have any of the physical symptoms — trouble breathing, rash, fatigue — then we’ll start thinking about taking the walls down.”

“How long will this take to repair?” Mycroft gestured at the ceiling. 

“Without seeing the loo upstairs, seeing how the floor is holding up, it’s hard to say. The ceiling here will be a few days. If we have to rip out the tub…”

“I turned the water to the upstairs off.” Greg said. “Didn’t want it to keep dripping.”

“Good.” Tim smiled at Greg. “Good thinking…” They went on, examining the loo in the master suite, Mycroft listening, ignoring the pain and fury in his gut… attempting to hide his utter loathing for Tim the builder. Fit Tim. Broad-shouldered, blue-eyed Tim... perhaps he could have Gavin Hind transferred to Brussels… or Auckland… 

Would that being doing Tim a favour? Clearing the way for Greg... every moment — every lingering look, every unnecessary _touch_ — Mycroft grew more certain that Gregory and this man were _involved_.

Finally — _finally_ — Tim left, exchanging a meaningful glance and smile with Greg at the door.

“What was that all about?” Greg asked afterward.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more precise.” 

“You were a right twat to Tim — he’s doing us a favour.”

“I can do without that sort of favour.” Mycroft muttered, walking away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg asked, following. “Mycroft?”

“Please, Gregory, the act is unnecessary. You know to whom you are speaking.”

“Yeah, and you know _to whom_ you are speaking.” Greg said, visibly attempting to hold onto his patience. “I can’t do your little trick, Mycroft. I _can’t_ tell what you’re thinking by the twitch of your eyebrow or the… the colour of your shirt.”

Mycroft huffed and shot him an irritated glance.

“Listen, My… I don’t want to fight. Just tell me.” Greg sighed. “Please.”

Mycroft turned on him. “How long has it been going on, this _thing_ with Tim? Since last summer?”

“Thing?”

“It is obvious, my dear — you’ve been carrying on with the fit builder. The least you could do was have him fix the doors so they stay latched.” Mycroft sarked angrily. But under Gregory's hurt, brown eyes, his righteous fury leaked away like air from a pierced balloon. He sagged against the wall, swallowing down his nausea. “Do you love him?”

“Tim? You think I’m… God, no…” Greg touched him, a hand on his shoulder, one on his face. “Mycroft… no.”

“It was obvious.” Mycroft insisted softly. “You’ve been seeing him.” 

“Yeah, we’ve met for pints a few times… but just to… to talk...” Greg turned, his hands slipping away.

Mycroft resented the loss of Gregory’s touch. “Talk?” He didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from his voice. 

“Yes.”

“Talk!” Mycroft repeated. 

“Mycroft…" Greg's voice was stripped bare. Mycroft girded himself for the admission. "Tim understands. He has kids too.”

Mycroft froze, his stomach dropping and guilt filling the empty cavity like cement. It tasted like bile. “Gregory…”

“Don’t get me wrong, love, I don’t regret the choices I’ve made. I wouldn’t go back… I love you.” Greg told him, and abruptly, Mycroft believed him. How could his spirits soar and swoop simultaneously? “It’s just hard sometimes. And Tim… he understands. He was married — to a woman, like I was. He had to tell his kids he was bi… he was with a man. Tim knows…” Greg shuddered and Mycroft was appalled to see him close to tears. “He knows how that feels.”

“Oh, my dear.” Mycroft pulled Gregory into his arms. 

“He’s lucky… his kids came around. He gets to see them — alone, Gavin’s not allowed… but he gets to see his kids.”

Mycroft held him tightly. He should have realised! He knew full well how keenly Gregory felt his children’s rejection. “I’m so sorry.” He murmured. Mycroft did not deserve this kind, generous, wounded man. His suspicions were mortifying now. Shameful. “I was being foolish… I’m so sorry.”

Gregory pulled away just enough to look Mycroft in the eyes — it was all there, everything Gregory wanted to him to know. There was reproach — that after all he’d given up, how could Mycroft doubt him? But there was forgiveness too, and love. So much love… Mycroft would never become accustomed to the sheer volume of Gregory’s love…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here, a shorter one. Just a glimpse into their love story. 
> 
> I think most kids do come around... but when an ex is bitter and the courts get involved... maybe it's different now that marriage is legal. 
> 
> If you've never read 'The Price of Salt,' give it a go — same author as 'The Talented Mr Ripley.’ (Thank you, Tetsugoushi) It's about what one gives up — or doesn't give up — for same-sex love. I think they made a movie not too long ago... haven't seen it yet.


End file.
